


His Father’s Sword

by B_Radley



Series: Rise and Fight Again [32]
Category: Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Families of Choice, Found Family, Hope, Love, Mandalorian Family Values, Mandos Gonna Mando, Multi, This ain’t the way, lost family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 85,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Radley/pseuds/B_Radley
Summary: Ahsoka and her Corellian cell search for a missing mother and daughter—both of them pawns in the politics of at least three different worlds, as well as the embryonic movement to restore the Republic. While searching on Mandalore, Covenant comes into contact with his mother’s family—in the form of his grandfather—a man who cast him out because he was born a Jedi.To Me What Family Is- Glaedr the PoetFamily to me has many meaningsFor all are full of diverse feelingsLove and anger, both within a single oneChildren who stay and children who runCan one family be better than another?It all depends on how they love each otherA family’s love should last foreverBonds of love nothing can severFor the family I have, I am happy and blessedAnd nothing more truthful have I ever confessedFamily has many meanings, but one rises aboveThe greatest meaning of family, is that of love
Relationships: Ahsoka Tano/Original Character(s)
Series: Rise and Fight Again [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/487091
Comments: 32
Kudos: 4





	1. A Boy Named Sue

**Prologue: Mandalore  
7935 CRC; Twenty-two years before the fall of the Republic**

The man once known as Tarranic Vheh’yaim—the last name the word for a small hut or croft in his native tongue—but one that has a more symbolic meaning on this world, as well—watches the burly little three-year old playing in the family room. He mutters nonsense words as he tosses the small wooden figures up in the air and to the floor, laughing with each strike of the ground.

Vheh’yaim—the symbolic name for those unwanted children, starts to smile, then hardens his look as he thinks what this toddler represents. The boy looks up, his face growing serious, his green eyes, narrowing. Tarranic holds his breath, recognizing that look from others. One, the Shysa heiress who had married a penniless mercenary, in spite of the objection of her father—the first Shysa Mand’alor.

The other, the oldest product of that marriage, the same gold-flecked green eyes staring at him with the same skeptical look from a darker hued face—a gift from his heritage.

Both now marching far way. His daughter. Lost only two and a half years ago—she and her Corellian husband killed in a missile attack on their shuttle. This boy—then an infant, had been ejected before the explosion.

His wife had died shortly after, leaving a crisis of succession to the Mand’alor.

Zegon Shysa—he had been proud to take her name—curses under his breath. He knows that somehow, Jamestyn Blackthorn, Nadara’s husband, had been the cause of the attack. Even though it bore the look of one of the hundreds of little attacks on this tumultuous world, where clans changed loyalty on an hourly basis, he is sure it had to do something with the Corellian’s previous marriage and the fact that he had given up some title of nobility.

His bodyguard comes out and nods, the server droid behind him. Jetto smiles at the boy, a warm look on his harsh reptilian features, the incongruous blond topknot shifting with the motion.

Zegon narrows his eyes again, opening his mouth. He stops himself. He won’t use that blasted Corellian name.

Instead, he uses that basic translation of his own last name.

“Croft! Boy! Come to dinner!” he barks. The boy ignores him, having gone back to his playing.

He starts towards the boy. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jetto moving towards him, his Falleen features growing worried.

The boy looks up at Zegon. He stops as a small fruit—a meiloorun—bounces off of his forehead. He stops, at first amused at the boy’s spirit.

That amusement vanishes as his eyes lock on the boy’s hands. Still wrapped around a toy. Both hands. His eyes are wide.

Zegon’s anger grows hotter with realization. “I won’t have a damned jetti in my house. Get him out of my sight.”

Nobody moves. Jetto turns to him. “Easy, Tar,” he says. Nobody else is able to call him that.

His rage grows white hot. “I said, get him out of here. He probably should be drowned.” He makes a move towards the boy.

He finds himself looking down the barrel of a custom made pistol.

His son, Fenn, who looks more like his mother, stands resolute with the weapon pointed at his father’s head. “You make another move towards him, I’ll kill you,” he says.

“Get out of my way, boy,” he says.

“I’m not a boy anymore, in case you haven’t noticed,” Fenn says. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jetto scoop the toddler up and exit the room.

Zegon snorts. “You ain’t the Mand’alor, yet, either, boy.”

Fenn gives a crooked grin—something that had alternately endeared the boy—the man to him, and infuriated him. “No. But I’m the true alor of this clan. They’d stand behind me, old man.”

Zegon stares at him. He turns and stalks away as Fenn lowers the blaster.

If he’d stayed in the room, Tarranic Vheh’yaim would’ve seen his son slump, as his family fractures.

**Fondor  
The fifth month of the year 7964 CRC; 6 years after the fall**

Nola Vorserrie lies back on the bed in the cabin on the _Draq’stone_. She smiles as she thinks of the last several months— at the strangeness of her life over those months. She lifts her shoulder from the bed and rotates it back and forth. She nods with satisfaction at the lack of pain and the full range of motion. Over six months had passed since a blaster bolt had actually saved her life instead of taking it. She looks mournfully at the still slightly deformed little finger on her left hand. It no longer gives her pain, but will take some surgery to fully correct. Surgery that she doesn’t exactly have time for. Her smile morphs into a grin as she thinks of how the angled finger has actually facilitated negotiations for different philanthropic endeavors over the last several months, as she remembers the looks of consternation or sympathy from the opposing parties as she had lifted her drinks with her left hand, the finger out and staring them in the face.

She sighs. _It looks like my other job is coming back to the forefront_. Seven months of waiting. Waiting for all of the pieces to fall into place for a new project. The rescue of a woman now languishing—protected, but not free—on the hellhole known as Kessel, as well as her daughter.

Held there at the behest of a man noted for his desire to possess things. Including, at one time, Nola herself.

Nola looks down at her finger again. She lifts up and looks in the mirror on the bulkhead, as she moves the index finger of the opposite hand over a small scar at the base of her throat, just where her long, slender neck joins the shoulder. She closes her eyes, remembering the pain as Jabba’s minion, Ming Lardai pushed the Tatooine flensing knife into her throat, fighting for leverage to bring it across.

As it always does, the memory of how close she had come to having her blood splashed out on the pavement of Raxus, brings slight tears to her eyes, as well as the vision of her lying on that same pavement, her eyes open and staring. She curses, shoving the fear away. Instead she focuses her emotions on the task at hand and the man who had ordered her death. An order given because she had the temerity to refuse his offer of marriage on his homeworld of Alderaan.

The temerity to refuse his ‘seed’ as he had so charmingly referred to what he would give her.

Dorith Panteer. Member of the Council of Graces on that world. Former CEO of Blastech on her new home, Corellia. Wartime Senator of this world and now its Imperial Moff. She reaches up and touches the fading scar of the blaster wound, just under the strap of her brief camisole. The wound she had received when someone had made the choice to use her skill and shoot her, sending the bolt into her attacker as well.

The blaster wound in her shoulder would heal. Nola might have twinges of pain in it as she got older on cold rainy days. It would be a reminder of the person who had saved her life. A young woman who rules one of the Yard-houses on this world. A young woman revealed to be the daughter of the prisoner on Kessel who was the focus of so much attention. Attention from Nola and those others who share her bond—the bond of a Protector and his sword-mates, as they were called on Corellia, the world that she now serves.

Thoughts of Yelena Dao and her actions bring her back to to Ardalen Nath and other revelations from Ardalen’s foster-mother, Naatha—Dani Faygan’s grandmother. Revelations about a woman thought to be dead on this world, after a dynastic assault,

An assault that had ironically brought Ardalen under the protection of Dorith Panteer on Corellia, without knowledge of what he was.

Without the knowledge of her family on Fondor.

Yelena Dao was now on Zeltros, remaining out of reach of Panteer, for now, ostensibly on a months-long trade mission. In reality, she was getting to know her foster-grandmother, Naathanan Beten’ii, onetime pirate and now a Zeltron version of Nola’s supposed boss, Draq’ Bel Iblis, the Dragon of Corellia and Dani’s father.

Nola shakes her head at the connections, again. She smiles as she thinks of the sensations associated with the last time she was on Zeltros, for the bonding of the Head of State, Boman Torstan’ii, his previous bond, Kanylynan na Torstann’ii, and their new bond, Alyysina Faygan’ii—the private ceremonies and celebrations. She rolls her eyes at the memory of one public committal ceremony, where Hondo Ohnaka had extracted the promise from Danalaan Torstan, to ‘give the bride away’. Fortunately all had been clothed at that one. She feels the warmth at her core as she remembers the private, family and close friends celebrations, as she remembers the tastes and sensations of light with the numerous people she had enjoyed in that days-long celebration.

There is a knock at the door.

Nola smiles, then opens it remotely, knowing who it probably is.

Meglann Florin, acting-Captain of this particular ship while her Captain-Owner is off playing pirate, steps in. Her face is grim.

“What?” Nola asks, her smile at seeing the younger woman fading.

“Got word from Ahsoka,” the younger woman says.

“Let me guess. The Interlocution was unsuccessful and Dani and Lassa stabbed each other,” Nola says, giving a smirk, to lighten the air of apprehension that had suddenly come into the cabin with Meglann.

It works.

“You know that wouldn’t happen. More likely Ahsoka would toss both of their asses out of the airlock,” Meglann replies with a grin. Both of their looks soften as they think of the three women on a pirate ship in Hutt space. Two of which who are official members of the Links of the Covenant Chain, a mythological bonding that had brought them all together in the fight against the darkness of the galaxy.

The other young woman seems to be auditioning for another spot—the Trusted Other, the slightly tarnished Link of the Chain. Depending on how the Interlocution—a Zeltron technique for bringing two feuding parties together goes. As with most things Zeltron, there are a great deal of physical _discussions_.

Both women shake the thoughts of those discussions from their mind. “What is it, Meg?” Nola asks, taking a deep breath.

Meglann matches her breathing. “There’s a kink in our plans for using Geddan the Hutt to get us admission to Kessel.”

“Fuck,” is all that Nola says. “What the hell has he gotten into? Shyla assured us that her pet scumbag could get us admission.”

“I know. Ahsoka isn’t sure. Shyla’s on her way to Ord Mantell to see if she can get Xizor to help as an alternative. He might be interested since we haven’t heard from Malaky in awhile on Kessel, after he managed to bring Ardalen under his protection.”

“Well, at least our so-called spice lord is bound to Corellia and the Dragon,” Nola observes at the mention of the last name. She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them. “Has Ahsoka heard from Bryne?”

“No. He’s finished his training on Naboo. The second part of this little project is moving forward. He’s gotten his assignment for Mandalore. Hopefully he can make contact with Ardalen’s other daughter before Panteer can.”

“Yeah. Panteer has been warned away from interfering on Mandalore by Imperial Center. They’re trying to figure out who’ll be the Viceroy.” Nola looks at the backs of her hands for a moment, where she has taken Meglann’s between them as Meg sits on the bed next to her. “So Bryne’s off the grid,” Nola continues.

Bryne Covenant, Ahsoka’s hunt-brother and fellow not-a-Jedi, had extended his time with the Imperial Security Bureau through an exchange program, so that he could go with Delilah Sal, the Imperial Advisor of Corellia, to Mandalore for her biennial active duty. A service that would hopefully facilitate them contacting the object of Panteer’s current obsession. A daughter from a brief affair with Ardalen Nath. One that could serve Panteer’s dynastic desires on his homeworld and possibly unseat Queen Breha of Alderaan.

A daughter that had been swept away, to keep her out of his hands, by Naatha, once she and Ardalen had realized what his Grace, Lord Panteer was.

A power hungry sociopath with a very high regard for himself and his ‘seed’.

Nola sees Meglann’s eyes track downward. She reaches out and lifts her chin with her right index finger. Meglann’s eyes glisten. “Hey, Squirt,” she says. “It’s okay. Both Ahsoka and Bryne both know what the risk is. They know this whole infiltration of the ISB could go ass-backwards.”

“Yeah,” Meglann replies after a moment, “and they could never see each other again.”

Nola pulls Meglann against her, holding her tightly. “I know, sweetie. But we have to focus on what we’re doing. I guess Fulcrum wants us to go back Shyla up?”

“Yeah,” Meglann replies against the skin of Nola’s chest, “she’s got another asset trying to get some information on Nar Shaddaa. The _Opportunity’s_ headed there as well.”

Nola brings her face to Meglann’s shoulder, breathing in the slight vanilla scent of her skin in the tank top. “Okay. I guess that I’ll have to go actually face Panteer. To make sure we can leave. I’ll contact Yosta Aspeff to see what we can come up with in the morning.”

“She’s already on her way over,” Meglann. “She’s on shaky ground as Mater-Comptroller of the Dao-Aspeff Yard, but she’s Yelena’s grandmother. Panteer wouldn’t dare move against her.”

Nola tightens her grip on Meglann. Both of them are silent as they think of connections.

Connections and families.

**The Outer Rim  
Free Vessel Opportunity**

Dani Faygan drowses in the main cabin of the _Opportunity_. As it had been for the last two weeks or so that she had been on the pirate ship, Ahsoka Tano had interposed herself between Dani and Lassa Rhayme, even after the semi-strenuous activities of the Interlocution.

She takes a deep breath, slowing her heartrate. _Such as now_ , she thinks, looking over at the companions tangled in the sheets and each other. She rolls her eyes at Ahsoka’s caution, but grins at what had precipitated the caution and the Interlocution.

A half-decade’s worth of anger and even blood, stemming from the end of the Clone War, when Bryne Covenant, then known as the Jedi Taliesin Croft, had served on the crew as the ship’s cook. He had been successful in getting Lassa and other pirates to serve as privateers for the Republic. Dani had been his backup, a Corellian Security Senior Constable serving as a gunner’s mate. They had made the decision to keep her undercover—the decision that had brought the shared knife wounds on both women and the current strife.

Dani’s eyes grow softer as she thinks of the underlying reason for Lassa’s disdain. Her first love and his family—her first family, really, had been a brother-sister-heart-bond Zeltron crew. A trio slaughtered by the Separatists while Lassa had watched. She laughs at one of their first sessions. They had finished, their breathing slowing as now, when Lassa had made a comment about the scratches on her back—something about more blood spilled by Faygan. Ahsoka had thrown up her hands and had started to get out of bed—probably the last straw of the snark between the two older women. Her heart trips a bit as she had seen the amusement in Rhayme’s bronze eyes as they had both pulled the ‘officiant’ of the Interlocution back down to the bed.

A look similar to the one staring at her over the belly of her ta’in’gere—her sister of the heart. She knows the look is in her own eyes, as well, now transitioned from the black of strong emotions of her people.

“I hear a lot of thinking going on,” says a high clear voice, the owner of that particular belly that Lassa is now busy kissing.

“The gears grinding are probably Faygan’s,” Lassa says as Dani opens her mouth.

“Yeah, but the smoke that you smell is from that twit with her empty head on your bread-basket,” Dani retorts. She feels the sigh from the one in the middle. She and Lassa grin, then reach across Ahsoka and sooth the words with a soft kiss.

“So what’s the plan, when we get to the Smugglers’ Moon?” Lassa asks.

Another sigh from Ahsoka as the idea of actually working sets in. “I’d rather just continue to play pirate with you, dear,” she says, reaching over and kissing Lassa’s temple blindly, “but I think that we may have to pull Geddan thet Hutt’s chestnuts from the fire, if Shyla’s going to be able to use him. Especially trying to get Ardalen off of Kessel.”

“Didn’t know he had any,” Lassa says, kissing her belly again.

Both of her bed-companions snort, probably all that the riposte deserved.

At that moment, Ahsoka’s datapad dings. Lassa manages to reach it on their discarded clothes and hands it to her. Ahsoka finally opens her eyes and smiles at both of them. Her brow furrows as she reads.

“From my operative on Nar Shaddaa,” she says. “Looks like Geddan might be in the shit with the Hutt Grand Council.”

“That ain’t good,” Lassa says.

“No. Naatha’s called for some backup going to Nar Shaddaa. Nola’s apparently going to head to Ord Mantell and keep Shyla out of trouble while she goes to Xizor.

“What about Bryne? Has anybody heard from him?” Lassa asks. Dani sees Ahsoka’s mouth go hard in a straight line.

“I got a ‘family comm’ from him. It had the agreed upon code words in it. He’s probably on Mandalore by now, with Delilah,” Dani says.

Dani moves her hand to Ahsoka’s cheek; it’s met with a blue version on the other cheek. Lassa’s estimation goes up another notch in Dani’s eyes. “He’ll be fine, na ta’in’gere,” Dani says. “He knows not to trust Delilah fully, even though she got herself shot, helping him save Shyla’s ass.”

“I know. I just miss him. It’s been six months since the wedding.” She looks down. “Since I saw him,” her voice trails off.

“We do too,” Lassa says, “but I’m damned glad you got to spend that six months with us. It would’ve been good to have my cook here, as well as my Quartermaster, but Adis has lost some weight. Can’t have everything. Not even your apprentice troublemaker—Junior,” she finishes, using her and her crew’s name for Meglann.

“What am I, chopped liver?” Dani asks.

“You can’t cook, either. You might be good for only one thing,” Lassa says without missing a beat. “Maybe two,” she adds, reaching over and tweaking Dani’s right nipple.

Ahsoka loses a little bit of the grim look, lifting one corner of her mouth in a smile. _Just as Lassa was hoping for_ , Dani thinks. She takes Lassa’s hand before she can move it away from her warmer skin, holding it to her breast, locking eyes with her.

“We might better head to Nal Hutta, to see what we can do with the Hutts,” Ahsoka says, sighing.

Lassa rises up and taps the intercom. A holo of a Twi’lek pops up, her single eye narrowing with amusement at her Captain’s nudity.

“You need somebody to show you how it’s done, Captain?” Ahsoka and Dani both giggle.

“No, smartass. I need a new navigator. The one I got is about to be scrubbing the hull with a teethclean stick. Change course to Nal Hutta. It’s not too big of an ask. Just change the decimal point.”

“Oh, so that’s how it’s done,” Thyla exclaims bringing her palm to her forehead, “I was a little fuzzy on that part.” She stares at Lassa balefully. “Rhayme, don’t tell me how to do my job. You stick to whatever the hell it is that you do.” She clicks off, after blowing a kiss to the three.

“Remind me why I wanted this crew back?” Lassa asks darkly.

**Mimban  
‘A’ Company, 1/27 Mechanized Infantry, 224th Armored Division – ‘Mudjumpers’**

The surviving troopers of ‘A’ Company, 1/27 Mechanized Infantry line up in front of the one surviving officer—a second lieutenant. The fourteen troopers—out of an original complement of 160, aren’t exactly a picture perfect military line. Several of them are without weapons; they’re just waiting to be dismissed so that they could get their four hours off the line.

The Lieutenant, known collectively as the Ferret, is having none of it. “Those of you who’ve lost your weapons, report to the punishment battalion. There’s a forlorn hope going out. Maybe as your guts are pouring out from a Mimby spear, you’ll remember to hold onto your weapon.”

“They need an officer, more than they need troopers, Lieutenant,” says a quiet voice. The Ferret whirls.

An erect figure stands there in a camouflage poncho rather than an officer’s overcoat. The figure stares at the junior officer from a calm, bearded face, with intense blue eyes. Two fresh troopers—recon troopers—move to the Lieutenant and take him by the arms. He starts to protest, but the officer is unmoved. The five troopers who had been sentenced start to follow. The officer holds up his hand, motioning them back into line.

“I’m Major Madine, recently come over from Division Recon. I’m the new battalion commander. We’re being relieved.”

The line of figures says nothing. He nods after a moment. “We’re being pulled off Mimban to reconstitute the unit. We’ll get Empire Day off. We’re going to Mandalore for a couple of months. Maybe less people shooting at us. Dismissed.”

The line breaks up. One figure heads to their tent. A moment later the figure stands alone in the tent. The E-11 is placed on a bunk, the trooper—known as Trooper Majorina Hoarne, lifts her hands to the mask covering her face, one, that in combination with the flared fleet helmet and goggles, forms something resembling a stormtrooper mask. It lands on the floor, along with the helmet.

Her clothes soon rest in a filthy heap. She stands naked in the middle of tent; she has no modesty with her squadmates. Or need for it, as all of them are dead. She walks over to the wash basin and dips her head into the filmy water. She runs her dirty fingers through her cropped blonde hair. She looks at her fingers, seeing some of the gold color sticking to her skin. She looks up at the mirror.

Hoare stares at the face of a stranger. At least one that doesn’t go with her true name. She lifts her fingers up to the jagged scar on her chest, that runs between her breasts. She can see a slight glow under her skin on the right.

Her savior hadn’t bothered with a full skin graft over the pulmonode that has taken the place of her right lung and one chamber of her heart. Even though this was only partial replacement, she swears that she can hear the electro-mechanical whirring.

Majorina Hoare had been born when she had woken up after the surgery. A former rival from her past life, Wulff Yularen had stared down at her, then given her a warm smile. She remembers the instant of Cantos Lardai plunging the strange knife into her chest, on the beach of Scarif. Just before Imperial stormtroopers would have executed her on the order of another rival.

She smiles at the thought of the leave on Mandalore. A place that the rival that had sentenced her to death had said that their shared family hailed from.

She stares at her dark eyes in the mirror. It was time for one who was dead to be reborn.

Leeza Antol, former Colonel of the Imperial Security Bureau, and former Antol’icha of the Antol crime family, prepares to go home.

She hopes that she can disappear on Mandalore. Wulff Yularen had saved her, hoping that she could be an asset—one that was a ghost.

She’s not sure that she’ll be somebody’s ghost. Only her own.

**Fondor**

Nola walks in behind Yosta Aspeff, the Mater-Comptroller of the Dao-Aspeff Yard and grandmother to the Yard’s mistress, Yelena Dao. The half-Fondorian woman stops, her color-shifting eyes locking on the admin droid.

“Her Grace, Lady Nola Vorserrie of the Crownshield Foundation for Refugees, to see Moff Panteer,” she says, “we have an appointment.”

The droid says nothing, merely fixing Yosta with his photoreceptors. “And you are?” he asks.

“You know who I am, imbecile,” Yosta says.

“State for the record and voice analysis.”

Yosta grits her teeth, then complies. The droid whirs.

“His Excellency is still busy. Please have a seat.”

Nola looks at the two fleet troopers standing guard at the door to the inner sanctum. She was used to this from Panteer. She’d been kept waiting by functionaries and droids, even when she had met him for dinner dates.

Back when she was being sized up as a receptacle for his ‘seed.’ She grits her teeth and shakes her head, remembering certain things that she had done with Panteer. Nothing like the full act. _That would’ve been a waste of his seed, until he had the full legal commitment_ , she thinks.

She blushes as she sees Yosta watching her, her hands resting on her cane—one that no one is sure that she actually needs.

“So what are you trying to get?” she asks.

Nola takes a deep breath. “Permission to take off, so that we can head to Ord Mantell,” she answers. She drops one eyelid in a wink. “We’ve got some contacts about refugees that you and the other yards can use.”

Yosta smiles. Hit little Dory in his ego. _More production capabilities for Fondor. Just like the Viceroy of Corellia_ , Nola thinks.

Yosta pulls closer to Nola, eyeing the admin droid. “Are you sure you’re okay going in here, Nola?” she asks. “Meglann told me a bit of what you dealt with from Panteer. Nothing sensitive,” she adds hastily, seeing Nola’s look.

“She should keep her mouth shut,” Nola says in a voice hard even to her own ears. She closes her eyes. When she opens them, she only sees concern from Yosta. Her eyes have locked onto a dark brown from the green, black, gold—even blue colors that the eyes rotate among.

“Meglann only said anything because she couldn’t be here with you. She only said it out of love, dear,” the Mater-Comptroller says, her voice and expression warm.

Nola breathes out. “I know. It’s just painful. I managed to nearly get sent to prison because of his meddling—because I exercised my own free will. It’s probably why I can’t be armed around him, in addition to the fact that he’s an Imperial Moff.”

The guards eye them as they both share laughter. A light goes on above the door.

“The Moff will see you now, citizens,” the droid intones.

Nola and Yosta rise. Yosta gives her right hand a brief squeeze as they walk towards the door. The guards continue to eye them as the door opens and they step through.

The first thing that Nola notices is the warmth that moves through her body. Her eyebrows rise as she sees the Zeltron woman sitting at an ornate card table across from Panteer. She looks up and smiles at them both with her dark blue eyes as she plays a card. She is dressed in what passes for business wear on her world. Her eyes hold promise for them both as she looks them up and down over her low cut top. Nola manages to take her eyes off of the woman, who had that look of undefinable age that Zeltrons have. She could be anywhere from twenty to fifty. She looks at the younger male seated facing the Zeltron, his own sabacc hand held close to his broad chest. He has a similar look to the woman’s features, but his skin is a light purple color; he looks to be in his late teens to early twenties. Nola starts as she sees his eyes transition from his bronze to the black. The gift of the woman’s and apparently the man’s people, to a certain extent. The Modula, an indicator of strong emotion.

“Sabacc, abeeyeh,” he exclaims.

 _Well, that answers the question about the relationship_ , Nola thinks, hearing the familiar Zeltron word.

_Mother._

She forces her eyes to Panteer, who looks at the two Zeltrons with amusement. _Of course_ , Nola thinks darkly, _he could give this woman his seed without a problem, seeing how any offspring couldn’t be in line for the Alderaani throne._

The young man looks at him with admiration and his own laughter. Panteer’s smile disappears when he pulls his gaze to Nola. He doesn’t rise.

Nola doesn’t bow, as another fellow Grace of Alderaan deserves. Instead, she eyes him with what she hopes is a neutral look. She pushes any inkling of a memory of their last meeting away. A meeting that had taken place several years ago. When she had refused his offer of marriage.

Panteer wears an Imperial uniform—something similar to what she had worn a few months ago, as a seconded Alderaani marine officer. The flap is open, showing a blinding white, expensive dress shirt. She tracks her gaze up to his face. She feels her face color as she remembers gazing on his holodrama-idol looks, his dark skin with the piercing blue eyes that seemed to size her up over their dinners. She purses her lips, then finds the one flaw that she had locked on.

That irritating, stylus-thin mustache over the thin lips.

She keeps her gaze locked on his. Mainly to keep from snickering at the moronic affectation.

“Whatever you’re asking for, unless it’s against Imperial order, it’s approved,” he says. “I think the less time that we spend around each other, the better, your Grace.”

She manages to keep a Tano-level Smirk from splitting her face. _Can’t exactly vouch for that, Dory, old boy_ , she thinks. She instead allows a smile to move over her features. “Very good, then, Moff. At least we both understand clearly where the other stands. But, I will say this,” she says, “if you send someone to kill me again, you’d better make sure they finish the job. This is your only warning.”

Other than a raised eyebrow, he shows no reaction. “You do realize that you could be subject to slow termination for threatening a Moff,” he says mildly. He examines his nails. “They’re testing ion disruptors for that process instead of the nervefire drug. I wonder if that annoying, superior smirk would be wiped off of your face as the disruption process slowly rips you apart from your middle?” He gives a skull-like smile. “Saves having to dispose of the body.”

Nola hears an intake of breath from Yosta. She keeps her voice even and responds to his first statement. “I didn’t threaten. I merely gave you an ‘either/or’ statement.”

After a moment, he smiles. “Point taken. Thank you for your feedback.”

He looks at the Zeltron woman and her son, who stare at them after the exchange. “Lady Vorserrie and I are old acquaintances. In fact, she very nearly gave me her hand in marriage, Irnalyn.”

Irnalyn’s smile returns. “I certainly would’ve made sure that she accepted, if I were in your shoes, your Excellency.” Her eyes gaze up and down Nola’s body. “A pity.”

Nola feels a bout of warmth in her heart, as well as her middle. She smiles at the Zeltron. “Maybe if he wasn’t so concerned with his seed,” she says softly.

Her smile fades as she turns back to Panteer. “Until the next time, Moff,” she says.

She spins on her heel and starts walking. As soon as they are out of the door and down the hall, she stops and slumps against the nearest wall. Yosta moves up to her and takes her in her arms.

“That went well,” she observes dryly.

**Kessel**

Ardalen Nath very carefully places the coaxium piece back in its climate controlled container, making sure that the piece doesn’t touch the sides. A final twist of the top and the container is among its fellows. In spite of her situation, she takes pride in her work—at least the part that she has carefully copied down on scraps of paper that she had hidden under her sleeping pallet.

The young lead engineer walks over and looks at her computations on the locked datapad. She smiles, then touches Ardalen on her shoulder.

Ever since she had been taken from the Pykes by the half-Falleen, half-Corellian Malaky—a purported crime lord, but one that had her under his protection—she’d been kept busy by the engineer. Ardalen sees the shock pad behind the delicate ear of the young woman; she knows that she has been lucky. She is more comfortable than many others on this world. Malaky had taken her hand and said that she would be here, working with the engineer, whose name she doesn’t know, and would be protected.

That had been six standard months ago. Malaky had supposedly been called back by his nephew, the Vigo of a segment of Black Sun. She hadn’t heard from him since.

No one had bothered her, either.

Two large beings with small faces under their masks—masks that resemble those faces come into the lab.

Ardalen rolls her eyes. _That doesn’t mean they haven’t been annoying_ , she thinks. She stops. Something in these Pyke’s demeanor is different, she can’t put her finger on what.

The Pyke pulls a knife. The engineer moves towards him. “This is a Priority Aurek asset,” she says in her quiet, slightly musical voice. Her teardrop-shaped eyes flash.

The other Pyke shoves her back. “Get back. Our leader has changed her status. He wants to send a message to people who interfere in our world.” He focuses on the engineer. “No matter how powerful they are in the galaxy.”

The Pyke advances on Ardalen. She crouches into a defensive stance, hoping that her slightly weakened body can defend herself. She remembers the lessons from her adoptive mother, Naatha Betenn’ii. A discipline from the world that had taken her in, twice.

A discipline known as the ‘laughing murder’.

The Pyke lunges, just as Ardalen thought he would. She manages to sidestep the thrust. Her time on Kessel had slowed her reaction down.

A bit. It didn’t matter.

A large green arm grabs the Pyke soldier around the throat and twists with the other hand.

All the way around.

The Pyke drops, revealing a large Falleen. Ardalen is struck by his green eyes. Once, they might have been powerful and piercing.

Now they were only blank.

Dead.

She notices that there is some sort of box wired to the right side of his ridged forehead. His topknot is totally gray. Ardalen can hear a hum emitting from the wire coronet of the device.

He turns to the other Pyke. “She’s under my protection. She’s my prisoner, now. I’ll be the only one to kill her, if she needs killing.”

Ardalen feels her heart sink at the flat inflection. He turns back to her. “Malaky is out of the picture. You’re my responsibility.” He turns and leaves.

Ardalen stares at his retreating figure. She closes her eyes. In her mind, she sees Naatha’s smiling face. The many times that she had been there for Ardalen. She feels tears forming in her eyes.

She wouldn’t be there for her this time.


	2. I Walk the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Haatyc or'arue jate'shya ori'sol aru'ike nuhaatyc_ \- "Better one big enemy that you can see than many small ones you can't."

**Mandalore, the Present**

Bryne Covenant eyes the crowd as the function—his fourth one since arriving here two weeks ago—gets well underway. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and grins ruefully. He shakes his head at the white Imperial tunic and black trousers. 

_At least they let me keep the Corellian rank plaque_ , he thinks, looking down at the gold and silver oval on the left side of his chest. _Although I’d rather have the old one—the one for Superintendent or Chief Ranger, rather than Major_. He looks over at his ‘date’, her reddish-gold hair bright against her tanned, freckled shoulders. _The one who foisted the new rank system on us, doesn’t even have to wear the damned thing._

 _Well, she’s wearing something_. His eyes track downward to just below her breasts in the ‘little black thing’. Her own Imperial rank plaque is prominently displayed, drawing the eye to it, as well as the cleavage above. Delilah Sal catches his eye while listening to some Imperial functionary blather on and on. Her own dark eyes hold promise. He smiles carefully, then returns to his survey of the room. 

His eyes are on the room, but his mind is a million parsecs away. He sees a pair of blue eyes under blue and white lekku and over orange skin, looking up at him softly. Also present are their three fellow Links, all of them bound to both he and Ahsoka. He grins. _Probably one more, by now, if the Second Link hasn’t killed the Trusted Other, yet._

His eyes return to Delilah, now laughing at something the functionary had said. Probably a bit louder than whatever the old prune had said deserved. He thinks of this particular member of the Links and her place. The Untrusted Other—one half of the Tarnished Link in the Chain, like Lassa Rhayme, but without full trust. Without full knowledge of the others, or at least their associations, as well. 

He thinks of his probable night ahead. _Another chapter in the continuing saga of the Covenant of Corellia and his cock in the holosheets_. His grin widens as he remembers what Ahsoka had said about the Untrusted Other: _You better take a shower before you’re welcome in my bed again. I might even volunteer to give you a bacta injection down there, bud._

His grin fades as he thinks of their last meeting. The morning after they had spent three days and three nights in a public expression of light on Zeltros. Their tears had mingled on their skin, as Meglann, Nola, and Dani, had left them alone—at least after they had expressed their own good-byes. 

Six months ago. He sighs. They had been separated before, since they had found that each other was alive, but now, the separation cuts even deeper. _In the fabric of each other’s hearts, while we are in the chambers_. Dani Faygan’s words sound in his mind.

He starts to take a sip of his whisky, realizing that his tumbler is empty. He looks at the remnant of the amber liquid, thinking of his other ostensible reason for being here. He was only expected to be on duty two or three days per week. The rest would be spent trying to get concessions for his employer— _no, his family enterprise_ —Whyren’s Ancient.

Another full glass appears. He looks up, seeing the glass attached to a hand in an Imperial uniform. He nods his thanks, his eyes widening as he takes a sip.

The officer’s bearded face breaks out in its own grin. “I know Whyren’s when I see it. Although I don’t get it as much these days.” He bows, in deference to the Covenant, then holds out his hand. “Major Crix Madine. 224th Armored. Originally from Hangdon County on the Eastern Crown.”

Bryne nods, knowing that region on the eastern continent—an area well east of Coronet and his own family seat of the Ray. “You’re the commander of the battalion that’s here,” he says. 

“Guilty as charged. You’re assigned to us as our ISB investigator.”

Covenant nods. “Yes,” is all that he says.

Madine looks at his chronometer. “You had any combat experience?” he asks. 

After a moment, Bryne nods. “Yeah. Jaklin Planetary militia, as well as the Falcons sector militia.” _Two units that didn’t keep good records._ “Spent some time in the Freedom’s Sons as well.” _The do-gooders of the galaxy without the hoodoo. Nor the Imperial death mark._

Madine returns the nod, as he turns to go. “Some hard fighting units. Even the do-gooders.” He grins, eyeing Delilah Sal. “I’ll see you when I’ll see you. When you’re not, ah, otherwise engaged. Try not to damage your Imperial equipment.” 

Bryne watches him as he moves towards a trooper in service uniform near the exit. He catches her eye under close-cropped blonde hair. He reels as he sees her dark eyes. The eyes of someone who he had thought was dead, bleeding out on a Scarif beach. A blink and the two Imperials are gone.

“So, you getting anything wet from that Imperial Advisor?” comes in a drawling inflection at his elbow. “You almost look respectable.”

He turns and looks into the similar eyes under the graying blonde hair of his uncle, Fenn Shysa. Shysa is dressed in an unfamiliar business suit, without his usual beskargam. Something he’d never seen his uncle without.

“Somebody’s got to be,” he replies. He falls into Fenn’s arms, holding him tightly. 

“So where’s your riduur?” he asks as they break away. Tehlen Skirata had captured Fenn’s heart and had given him a son.

“Back running the galaxy on Stornan,” Fenn replies. 

“Y’all take more breaks than you spend together,” Bryne observes.

“Yeah, but the makeup sex is incredible,” Fenn replies. He pulls Bryne over to a corner.

“You’ve found her?” Bryne asks.

“Yeah. She’s with the Saxons. At the Academy. Lots of people asking about her. Different Imperial types.” He looks at his glass of Keldabe rum. “Another clan, as well. One led by an old man named Tarranic Vheh’yaim. They were originally supposed to get her, to keep her safe from Panteer. Somehow she wound up with Jak Saxon.”

Bryne starts with recognition at the family name of the first. A Mando’a version of a name he had borne as a Jedi. A name that signifies that the bearer is unwanted—something rare in Mando society, but still occurred.

He notices that Fenn avoids his eyes. He files that for later. “See if you can get us a meet. I’ll see if I can sell them some whisky.”

Fenn grins, his old self again. “Yeah. Their front’s an Alderaani spice grill, of all things.”

“Hope the food’s good,” Bryne replies. 

“Don’t they teach Corellians to salute?” says a voice at his elbow.

Bryne curses under his breath at the voice. He turns and looks down at the Imperial naval captain—a full captain looking up at him from a much lesser height. A woman last seen in a bathing suit on that same Scarif beach, with a version of the blonde trooper that he had glimpsed earlier, also in a bathing suit. Both looking down at a sleeping young woman. 

Leeza Antol, having just ordered this naval commando, Cantos Lardai, to slit Meglann Florlin’s throat. 

Lardai had disobeyed, after Leeza had left, taking her up to a waiting star destroyer and its Moff. 

“If there’s somebody worth saluting,” he says, with all of the arrogance of an ISB agent.

“I thought that an Alderaani Peacekeeper-General would know how,” she says, naming another of his lives. “I had you in my scope on that building after I shot the Antol.” She looks over at Delilah Sal, who is staring at her with loathing. “I see you have your protection, Covenant. Leeza wasn’t wanting you killed, as well. Probably for the same reason.”

She reaches up and kisses him. “You see where it got her. My knife in her chest. After she married me for my cleaner name.” Lardai looks at Delilah. “Maybe the Advisor will share.” She turns and leaves. 

“You sure can pick’em, bud. She’d probably break it off,” Fenn observes.

**The Imperial Academy, Mandalore**

Yelena Dao enters the firing range, her rifle in its case. She eyes the young woman moving into the familiar firing stance for firing a pistol—a true stance, not the usual gunfighter’s grip that was usually found here on Mandalore. Usually found because a fighter was usually slinging two blasters. 

_Well, at least she isn’t using a target-shooting stance, turning sideways and all that poodoo_ , Yelena thinks. She moves into the lane next to the woman and places her case on the shooter’s bench. She takes a deep breath and runs her fingers over the newly shaven skull, then down where the jewel had been until a few days ago. When Naathanan Beten’ii had asked her for a favor. 

A favor that could introduce her to a newly discovered blood relative. Discovered since she had learned the truth about her own mother.

Yelena smiles ruefully as she looks down at the Imperial officer’s uniform that she now wore. _Well, I guess all of those independent study courses and my reserve status are paying off._

She pulls on her gloves as her companion breaks her stance and glances in her direction. Yelena is struck by the warm smile that the girl—probably about sixteen, a couple of years younger than Yelena’s eighteen. 

She is nearly bowled over by the familiarity that she detects in the young woman’s features—features maybe a half-shade lighter than her own bronze. She tries to speak, the emotions of meeting the young woman piling on—only a short while after she had learned that her mother was alive, rather than killed in a racing accident after her birth. Actually no accident, but murder, along with her father, the half-Fondorian son of Yosta Aspeff.

Yelena pushes those emotions away—emotions that she has yet to process. Not just the joy of newfound life, but maybe a little bit of anger at being deceived. 

She focuses on allowing a smile to move over her face, mirroring the look on the shooter’s face. “Pretty tight grouping,” she says. 

The young woman’s face loses its smile. Yelena finds that she misses the expression—its pure warmth. 

“Tell my brothers that,” she says darkly. 

Yelena looks at the target as she pulls her rifle from its case. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the pistoleer’s eyes widen at the old Republic DC-15 long gun. “You’ve got a good group,” she says gently to the younger woman, “it’s just a little off center.”

“Yeah. I feel like I’ve plateaued,” she says. She starts as if she suddenly remembers her manners. She holds her right hand out. “Melis Saxon.” 

_That’s not your name, dear, at least not the right family name_ , Yelena thinks to herself. She sees Melis eyeing her uniform, particularly the non-Imperial rank plaque.

“I’m on a training program for the reserves on my world,” she replies. “I’m at the Academy for a semester.” Yelena says. She manages to suppress her grin at the idea that somehow Dorith Panteer, Imperial moff and thorn in her Yard’s side had sponsored her for this—without his knowledge. With the help of a certain Corellian slicer—one who had managed to look down her top the one time he had met her, a few months ago.

She does grin in private triumph as she remembers the shocked and sheepish expression on his face—with accompanying blush—when she had flashed him. 

Her thoughts grow dark as she thinks of the relationship between Panteer and this young woman. A relationship that is one of possession on his part, a fact she had learned from Naatha.

She comes back to the present. She realizes she is holding Melis’s hand still. “I’m Yelena,” she says. 

She pulls her rifle to her shoulder, simultaneously pulling her eye protection over her eyes. She hesitates only a half-second before she squeezes off three rounds. 

She smirks at Melis’s dark expression as she sees the perfect grouping—right in the exact center. 

“I can tell that you’re going to be an insufferable pain in the ass,” Melis snarks.

“It’s part of my charm,” Yelena replies with appalling false modesty. She grows serious. “Can I try something?”

Melis eyes her, but after a moment, nods. Yelena places her rifle on the bench, then pulls behind Melis. “Get into your stance,” she says. She realizes that she and Melis are of similar height and only a slightly different build, Melis being a tad thinner. 

Melis complies, immediately moving into a push-pull grip of the pistol. Yelena reaches around her and grasps her arms. 

“Go ahead and just do a straight point-to-point grip, dear,” Yelena says, keeping her tone conversational, rather than instructional. She moves the girl’s arms and hands slightly. “Rip a couple off,” she says. 

Melis fires three, rather than two. Her eyes widen, as does her smile as she sees the same tight grouping.

Dead center, rather than offset.

“What—”

“It’s an easier grip. You don’t need to look fancy, all _tactical_ , for qualifying.” Yelena replies with only slight disdain. “You just need to get the job done.”

“So this proves it,” Melis says.

“What?”

“That both of my older brothers are arrogant assholes,” Melis finishes.

Their laughter sounds almost in harmony. 

Yelena senses someone behind them. She turns and sees an older man—maybe in his sixties, or older, watching them, his right eye covered in a patch. 

His expression is soft as he looks at Melis. Yelena looks at Melis, whose face morphs into an even warmer smile as she sees him. 

Yelena tries to keep the shock off of her face as she recognizes him. A face that she had seen, in a younger version, only months ago on her world. 

The face of one who had been large version of a former trooper of the Grand Army of the Republic.

A Null-clone. One that didn’t exactly resemble the others that she had seen.

**Sundari**

Tarranic Vheh’yaim moves through the dregs of Sundari—the places that even the bravest and boldest Mandalorians avoid. He walks through the darkened streets alone, clad in a business suit over his massive frame, rather than his beskargam. It had been years since he donned it. 

He smiles softly as his mind’s eye returns to the shooting range, where the two young woman had shown off their skill, as well as what even one as emotionally dense as he could see as the beginnings of a semblance of a bond. 

Tarranic thinks of those that he had once shared a bond like that. Jango Fett. Jetto Wasablim. Even his daughter, Nadara and his son, Fenn. In spite of himself, he even thinks of the three-year old he had cast out. One that in spite of his bluster, he could’ve seen carrying on the traditions. Even at that age, his defiance had shown that he had inherited the Mandokar—the essence of being Mando—from his mother. Maybe even something similar from that damned Corellian gambler and princeling that had stolen her heart. 

Pure, unadulterated guts and brains. 

He snorts. The last was something that Nadara had in multiples, but had not gotten from him. No, that had come from her mother, that green-eyed temptress—the woman who had given him her clan name, as well as a new first name. The young woman, who for a brief time had held the title of Mand’alor.

The last one before the Kryze—the father of that Kryze woman who had taken the title and had changed it and those who had followed it. Satine had split the title, giving his son the name and the mantle of Protector—the True Mand’alor as those who held to the old ways had called it. He feels a spark of pride at how Fenn had managed to navigate both worlds in Sundari—at least until he couldn’t. When he and his Wild Jaighawks had left Manda’yaim and had become mercenaries and teachers.

He runs his fingers through his brush cut hair. The phantom left eye, behind its patch, has begun to throb again, much like it had for the last few months. He tries to think of his legacy. A collection of Unwanteds—castoffs from many clans. Men and women who lived their lives by a code, but served their new clan rather than Mandalore.

He thinks of that second name on his Remembrance. Jango Fett, dead since the beginning of the war, beheaded, it was said, by the Jedi Master Mace Windu. He thinks of the last time they had met, before they had gone their separate ways. Well after that young Shysa had tamed him and given him children. 

Tarranic, or Zegon Shysa at the time, remembers gripping Jango’s gauntlet in his own; he remembers the tiny prick of pain, of the tiny drop of blood drawn from something on Jango’s glove. He remembers that he didn’t seem to find any blood after that. 

He had his thoughts on that entire episode, but he has never voiced them. 

Tarranic, the Vheh’yaim of Vheh’yaim, realizes that he has arrived at his destination. He doesn’t hesitate, he walks into the cantina. Several patrons are in beskargam. He can feel their eyes on him, behind the buckets. 

He doesn’t shake in his boots. Instead, he walks over and sits down at a table in the corner, where the only other person not dressed in the armor sits, her—and he can see that the figure is a _her_ , underneath the dark cloak—back to the wall. 

He realizes that the cloak is over an Imperial uniform. She lifts her face and stares into hers, the hood concealing her close-cropped blond hair. He can make out her features—dark brown eyes, and bronze skin. 

The features are somewhat familiar. _They should be, he thinks. I look at some like it in the mirror, every morning_. Although hers are much softer and more attractive.

He reaches out and runs his fingers along her strong jaw. She doesn’t flinch. 

“I thought you were dead, Antol’icha,” he says, using a title that had been born on this world, thousands of years ago.

She smiles somewhat wolfishly. “Not my title any more. I don’t even have a family. That traitorous bitch Cantos Lardai saw to that,” she replies.

“Careful, dear. You shouldn’t speak too loudly about the Imperial Advisor of Mandalore,” he says. 

She looks away. “I’m the last surviving Antol,” Leeza— _that’s her name_ —says. “Lardai is a pretender. Someone fed her a lot of shit. Her father was just a soldier, if that.”

Tarranic says nothing. “Your family got cast out of the Mandalorian sphere eons ago. They were declared darmanda.” He sees her blank expression. “The state of no longer being Mando,” he explains. 

“You’d know something of that, wouldn’t you, dear? I’m told that Clan Malika—the House-clan that fought ours cast you out. But they’re all dead now,” Leeza says. 

He takes a sip of her rum. “Maybe. But I ain’t looking to get reconnected with my House-kin, darlin’. Unless you’re offering something more physical.”

She grins. “Perhaps, since we’re distant enough cousins. You _have_ aged well.” She looks down as they hear the comm chatter of an Imperial patrol through the open door.

“I need someone to hide me. Or else an Imperial blaster squad will put me against the nearest wall and put several extra orifices in me.”

He is silent for a moment, staring at her. He gets up, pulling out his comm and sending a text. 

“Come on. We’ll see where this goes, dear. We can always use a Vheh’yaim who knows how to speak high-level Imperial.”

He manages to catch a glimpse—just a glimpse, nothing more—of gratitude and relief in her dark eyes as she rises to follow him.

The blank, unreadable mask returns as they move out into the back alley.

**Ord Mantell**

Nola watches as Meglann shoves her way through the teeming crowds, leading from the docking bay to the area that Shyla Merricope had directed them to in a terse message. She allows herself another jolt of pride as she sees the confidence with which Meglann does that shoving.

 _Shoving with a smile, as well_ , she thinks. 

Nola wishes that she had the confidence to know what the hell they were doing there. Shyla had only mentioned trying to enlist Prince Xizor in trying to get them passage to Kessel. Nothing else. They’d heard nothing since they had gotten coordinates to the bar that she _might_ meet them at.

Not for the first time, she wonders if dealing with Shyla Merricope is worth the trouble. She isn’t sure that Dani Faygan, Shyla’s former lover, might not agree with her—losing her status as the ex-Diktat’s most ardent defender.

Meglann stops at a nondescript door, checking her comm. She looks at Nola and shakes her head. She enters the door—

And is immediately stopped by a very large being of indeterminate species and gender. Not to mention the fact that both Meglann and Nola’s asses are immediately pawed at the door by other patrons of the dark bar—a bar oozing with seediness, in spite of the semi-respectability of the exterior. 

One large blaster draw and another broken finger later, the bouncer stops the motion to throw them out, when a slight Corellian accent says, “Don’t, Phid. They’re dear friends. Also, throw those two assholes out that groped them. Make them remember it.”

Their eyes move to the source of the voice. Shyla Merricope sits at a back table. Nola narrows her eyes at her changed appearance. Blonde hair and grass-green eyes are present where dark hair with a touch of gray and brown eyes had been before, along with much more of the hair.

Nola takes a second to think that the new look doesn’t suit her; she’d preferred the former look. They sit at her table, eyeing the three glasses of whisky already poured.

“So what the hell are we doing here?” Meglann asks without preamble.

“Your jobs,” Shyla says bluntly. 

Meglann stands up. “Oh, really? I didn’t know we were at the beck and call of a washed up politician,” she says. “We’re trying to get things accomplished, but we seem to be always trying to figure out what we’re supposed to do to help you.”

Nola looks at Meglann and grins. She looks sheepish, then sits down. Shyla reaches out and touches her hand, taking it in hers and rubbing it gently. 

“I know. I seem to be making this up as I go along,” she says. 

Meglann softens, then nods. “So how did you find this place?” she asks. 

“Easy,” Shyla replies with a smirk. “I bought it.” She looks down, contemplating the whisky that had been placed for them. “I had some help.” She nods to the back room. 

A tall figure in beskargam—all sand colored gold, walks out. He walks over and sits next to Shyla. After a moment, he removes his helmet.

An older man in his sixties stares at them from dark eyes. Dark eyes in a bronze, slightly pockmarked face. The dark eyes stare at them with hard expression, but then soften with humor. Humor leavened with a multitude of memories and lifetimes. 

“Hello, Kal,” Shyla says. “This is Nola and Meglann. They’re here to help us get Ardalen from the Hutts.”

Nola nods. “You’re the Kalbuir,” she says, dipping her head in respect. “A friend of ours spoke of you—when he was recovering from the war,” she says, trying to be a cryptic as possible. She grins. “You’re much taller than I’ve heard.”

Kal Skirata, once a Mando training sergeant for the Null-class clones, a small, aggressive class that he had saved, and later adopted as his ‘sons’, nods, ignores the sally about his height. “Tell that useless Storm-King that I know all of his secrets.” He grows serious. “I think that you might work with a certain huntress, as well.”

Nola doesn’t respond, but he nods anyway. He takes a sip from the glass placed in front of him, then nods approvingly.

“So how are you here, Mr. Skirata?” Meglann asks. 

“I’m Kal. Never been called Mister in my life. A certain mover and shaker on Zeltros, who once saved my ass, called in a favor. Plus, I’ve got some connections with some of the less savory individuals that this lady might have to deal with.”

“Geddan?” Nola asks.

“Among others,” Kal replies. “Geddan and I have an understanding.”

“That’s very good,” says a voice from the door. “Might make this easier to try and save his bacon.”

Nola stands up and snarls, her hand going to the blaster behind her back. Meglann follows her lead and starts to haul out the oversized Corellian blaster. Amazingly, she has cleared it in a blur.

The owner of the voice, a woman standing in the door, her muscled arms crossed, looks at the two women with amusement. She shakes her head, the uncrosses her arms, holding the palms out. “Hello, Nola,” she says. “Maybe it’s good I didn’t kill you on Raxus.” She lifts her palm and rubs her chest.

“Yeah, dear. I think it was hard to do with the blaster wound in your chest.”

Ming Lardai, hardened killer and minion of Jabba the Hutt, smiles. “Yeah, I’d like to meet that friend someday. They were a good shot and had nerves of steel.” She looks at Kal. “I think there’s something going on with a couple of our Hutts on the Council.” She takes them all in. “You lot might be able to help us get Geddan out of it.

“In return, I might not kill you, Nola,” she finishes. 

Nola takes a deep breath. Shyla gets up and stands between Nola and Lardai. “I don’t think you’ll do that, anyway. Xizor and Jabba still aren’t in the best of situations towards each other.”

After a moment of staring, Lardai nods. She throws a commchip down. “Whenever you feel like making progress towards whatever your goal is, give me a call.” She blows a kiss to Nola and Meglann, who still holds her blaster on the woman.

“Pay her no mind,” Kal says. “Xizor might be disposed to helping us, seeing that Malaky appears to have disappeared as well.” He glances at Shyla. “He is in a bad mood,” though.

“Maybe a bubble bath will sooth him,” Nola snarks. 

Shyla laughs. “You and I are old hat, Nola,” she says. “Might not do it for him anymore.”

All three of them turn towards Meglann, who rolls her eyes and holsters her blaster. “Bring him on. I’ve learned a few things from Dani.”

“There might be another alternative,” Shyla says, motioning behind her. 

Nola hears Meglann squeal then rush past her. She leaps into the arms of the young male Twi’lek standing there. He twirls her around; they hold each other tightly. 

Fitanzuju Ataro, known as Fit, and Meglann’s fellow former indentured servant looks at the others. Nola marvels at his newfound confidence, a confidence gained at a Corellian orphanage—the training ground for its now-underground intelligence services. 

A place known as the House—a place that had produced a Dragon and his daughter, among others.

 _Guess Meglann isn’t the only one whose grown_ , Nola thinks, moving to greet Fit.

**Mandalore — The Aldera Grille**

Bryne places his eating sticks down next to his plate and looks around the small bar area. Fenn is still eating; they’d decided to eat away from the large communal tables and heated cooking stones—all of which seem to be full of laughing patrons—patrons that seemed to be satisfied with the skill of the grillmaster and his apprentice.

As well as the spicy temperature of the meats and vegetables. He grins as he compares it to another restaurant that had seemed to be the front of less-than-respectable businessmen. One that was well known on Naboo for its horrible customer service and even worse food. 

His trained eyes watch as several hard looking men and women move in towards a door in the back of the bar, looking around. All of them look as if they would be at home in beskargam, the traditional armor of the Mandalorian fighters. 

One of them stares at Fenn Shysa with what looks like recognition, then with a hard look. Fenn puts down his cup and stares back at her. She smirks and moves into the hidden room. 

Bryne sighs. It had been about two weeks since Fenn and he had met at the reception. Since then, Bryne had been spending more time at the barracks of the 1/27 Mech, listening to officer complaints about their soldiers and each other. Madine had let it be known that he would tolerate none of the backbiting and had demoted several of the newer officers to join the ranks of the replacements, something that hadn’t endeared him to his fellow battalion commanders and the divisional staff.

Somehow, he’d managed not to shoot any of them. Bryne is curious as to whether the Imperial Ground Forces really deserve someone who seems to be a leader, rather than a thug or a lackey. One that didn’t seem to worship at the altar of _Order._

He wonders why Crix Madine is in the Imperial Forces. Bryne makes a note to see if he can find out.

Bryne shakes his head at a thought for another day. Fenn is watching him. After a moment, he grins at his nephew. 

“I wonder if I’m going to get hazard pay for this gig. I’ve been sitting at this bar, scoping the place out, wondering whether my liver will survive,” he observes.

“Well, ten percent of nothing is still nothing,” Bryne replies, “besides—no one has seen your liver in thirty years or so. It’s probably kept in a jar next to your balls by the Protector of Stornan.”

Fenn laughs. “It’s funny that you mention thirty years or so. That’s about the time that you’ve been a pain in my ass.”

“It’s what I do,” Bryne replies dryly. He feels himself grow serious. “Fenn, what was my grandfather like? Other than the fact he was ready to toss my ass out on the street. What happened to him?”

Fenn takes a sip of his Keldabe rum, contemplating the dregs. He downs it, as if finding courage in it. “I don’t know what happened. After I and one of his trusted lieutenants got you out of there, he left the Shysa enclave. Never saw him again.”

“What did he look like?” Bryne presses. He cocks his head at Fenn, realizing that he avoids his own gaze.

“Hello,” says a warm voice at their table. 

Bryne and Fenn both look up. A young woman of just a tiny bit shorter than medium height stands smiling at them. She gives both an appraising look, but allows them to return it.

She is clad in an expensive, burgundy dress that shows her figure to great advantage, with a medium-length dark gray coat over the dress. The dress matches her medium-dark complexion flawlessly. Her light amber eyes gaze over Covenant, then gives Fenn a brief glance. Bryne’s eyes lock on the scarf around her throat, as well as the gloves on both hands. Gloves that disappear into the sleeves of the coat.

Bryne smirks at Fenn as they both rise. The young woman holds out her hand to Bryne, allowing her touch to linger. “Your Eminence,” she says with a Mid-Rim accent, mixed with that of the Southern Continents of this world—much like the millions of clones that Bryne had fought with and Fenn had trained. “I’m Iris Rook. I manage the Aldera Grille and look out for other various operations of Mr. Vheh’yaim’s.”

“Please, call me Bryne. Or Covenant,” Bryne replies, without stumbling over his words. He shoots a hard look at his uncle’s eyeroll.

Iris Rook glances at Fenn, adding her own hard look. “Mr. Shysa,” she says dryly.

She sits in the chair that Bryne pulls out for her. As she does, he notices that her coat falls on a strange shape at her back. A shape—or two that he recognizes.

A holstered blaster at the back of her belt, held horizontally for an easy grasp. One like two of his fellow Links carry, albeit with opposite strong hands from the other.

Iris Rook looks very capable of using the holstered weapon, as well as taking care of herself in any situation. His eyes fall on the hint of definition of her arms under the light coat. 

“So you may have a solution to our issue with trying to get good whisky on Mandalore,” she says. 

“I just might,” he replies simply. He lets a slow grin play over his features. “I can solve a lot of problems.”

Her eyebrows raises, but her eyes crinkle in a smile as she returns his gaze. “I’m thinking that you could, Covenant,” she says. His sensors detect more than a slight bit of promise in her tone. 

“Why is it that you can’t seem to get good whisky?” he asks. 

She takes a sip of his. “We tend to get caught up with sleemo distributors. I’m sure that you can taste that even though the bottle says Whyren’s, this is a knockoff.”

He grins, taking another sip. “No, it’s not a knockoff. It’s blended Whyren’s put in a single malt bottle.”

She looks at him, then nods. “Well, at least your palate’s good,” she says. She touches his hand as it lies next to the glass, allowing it to rest there. 

After a moment, she glances at her chronometer. “I have to get back to work.” She hands him a commchip. “I have to go out of town for a couple of weeks, but I’d like to have another meeting.” She gives him a hooded look. “Maybe a more private one.”

Fenn stares at him, then at her retreating form. His eyes track back to his nephew as Bryne pays the bill. “Not bad, bud. She strikes me as someone who doesn’t suffer fools gladly.”

“Yeah, could be why she didn’t give you a second glance, old man,” Bryne replies. 

Fenn ignores him. “Wonder what her story is? Her clan is one of the older established ones, who managed to keep to the old ways, without having to go peacenik or get exiled.”

They exit into the cool night and looks around the calm streets. It is getting later, so the crowds are limited to couples and small groups.

Both of them stop at the adjacent alley to the restaurant. Bryne catches a glimpse of burgundy and gray. Iris Rook stands at the door as a group gets out of a large landspeeder. 

A very large older man walks in the center of four beskargam-clad figures, heading to the door. The older man’s face turns towards them in the light of the alley as he greets Iris; she returns his embrace. Bryne takes a deep breath; he hears Fenn’s breath as well.

“Must be the old man, Vheh’yaim,” Bryne says. His mind tries to process what he sees. 

The face of one of his closest friends, albeit older. The face of a Null-clone, only recently found after the maelstrom of the end of the Clone Wars. He whirls and looks at his uncle who has a dumbfounded expression that probably mirrors his own. 

Fenn shakes his head, allowing his expression to grow calm.

“Why does a Mando crime lord look like Drop? The man you adopted as your son,” Bryne asks. “I knew Drop looked different than the other Fett clones. I just thought it was an aberration,” he starts. 

“It’s not,” Fenn replies tersely. His eyes are locked on the old man.

“What?”

Fenn doesn’t answer. Bryne remains patient. 

“I know him. Not by the name of Tarannic Vheh’yaim,” he says. 

“Who is he?” Bryne asks. 

“I know him by the name of Zegon Shysa,” he finally replies. A pause.

“My father.” Another beat.

“Your grandfather.”

Bryne looks back at the landspeeder. “You didn’t think it was important to tell me that he looked like Drop?” he asks, keeping his voice even.

“And how was I supposed to bring that up? ‘Oh, by the way, your right hand clone looks like the old man who cast you out. That my father might’ve jerked off in a cup?” Fenn spits, his own anger controlled. “Why the fuck do you think I adopted Drop?”

Both men fall silent as the door closes. They stare at each other, then at the door.


	3. Brown-Eyed Handsome Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I adhere to the Resol'nare. The core of what it means to be Mandalorian. A sacred law giving us direction and purpose. Education and armor, self-defense, our tribe, our language, our leader—all help us survive. We must educate our children as Mandalorians, obey the commands of Mandalore, speak Mando'a and defend our clans."

The young woman winds her way through the small crowd, the drinks tray that she had purloined from a server droid balanced carefully. She watches the main platform, waiting for the muscular Hutt to make his morning appearance. She looks down at herself, thinking that the amount of exposed crimson skin is enough to distract anyone from the others in her party. She smirks as she sees the very large Zabrak, his oiled skin glistening in the low light as his hips move back and forth, to and fro to the half-hearted music. She sees his wife next to him, her scarlet lekku moving with slightly more enthusiasm, if no more skill in the movement. The young woman known as Face seems to be giving the large figure quiet encouragement.

Danalaan Torstan’ii catches the eye of another overlarge figure, this one clad in a dark cloak. His bronze eyes stare back at her from his azure face, but he gives no sign of recognition.

Daani sighs. They had been at Geddan’s court on Nar Shaddaa for close to a month and a half, but had only caught glimpses of the younger Hutt, yet another nephew of the great Jabba. They had come no closer to getting a formal audience with him, an audience that would hopefully result in his blessing and safe conduct to Kessel. A safe conduct that would help them move closer to rescuing the adopted daughter of the woman who had sent her and the three others of their small party here.

Naathanan Beten’ii—the once-feared founder of the Blood Bone Order, now a legitimate businesswoman.

 _Well, semi-legitimate_ , Daani thinks. She feels yet another appendage move over the cheeks of her ass, a movement that engenders no reaction from her as she continues to watch for the dais.

Her eyes widen as she sees another hover-platform move into the room—a different Hutt resting on it. She sends her mind to the datapad that she studied every night, trying to differentiate between the various Hutt movers and shakers.

Daani looks at Sorentin, who appears just as mystified as she is. His eyes narrow as a human woman walks in, her left hand resting on an ornate knife on her hip, the other resting on the blaster. She takes note of the woman’s self-assured gaze on the room, her wiry arms bare in her jerkin. She sets the tray down next to a passed-out Abenedo, then moves over to where the woman stands. With a slight thought, she brings her resonance off of ‘standby’ mode. She sees the woman’s dark eyes start and move in her direction, playing over her body.

The woman’s thin lips quirk up in a slight smile, but the smile doesn’t extend to her eyes. In fact, there doesn’t appear to be any life in those eyes.

She stops next to the woman, who continues to stare at her. Daani opens her mouth, but is beaten by the woman.

“Not that I wouldn’t mind taking you into one of those alcoves and teaching you a few things, babe,” she says, “but I’m on the clock. So you can turn the hoodoo down a bit.”

Daani raises an eyebrow as the woman turns away. She realizes that the tall hooded figure has moved next to her.

“She’s not anyone to trifle with, girl,” Sorentin Rhayme says, moving his bulk close to hers. “She’d just as soon cut your gullet open with that flensing knife as kiss you.”

Daani moves into his arms, placing her lips near his ears. “Who is she?” she asks.

“Ming Lardai. Jabba’s flavor of the month as his enforcer,” he replies. He nods at her look of recognition. “The same. The woman who nearly did for Daaineran’s foster-sister.”

She is about to say something else when the grinding noise of Geddan’s platform cuts into their hearing. As it comes out, Daani sees something she thought she would never see.

A look of worry furrowing the brows of a member of the Hutt species. Geddan stares out at them, the rare pink eyes of an albino replacing the ocherous yellow of most Hutts, including the one that Ming Lardai seems to accompany.

She notices that Geddan is staring at Sorentin. After a moment the Hutt seems to nod, before turning his eyes to the other of his species.

“Hello, cousin,” he says in a booming voice typical of the Hutts, but with a surprisingly cultured Basic accent.

The Hutt leans over as a translator droid whispers in what passes for an ear. “Don’t ‘cousin’, me, Geddan,” she says in Huttese—Sorentin translates for Daani. “I’m here on official business for the Grand Council.”

“And what, pray tell, would Council be doing using you for anything other than wiping their asses, Hefella?” Geddan asks.

Daani realizes that Hefella’s voice is high pitched, with a definite feminine intonation. “I would show me more respect if I were you. All that education that you have and you can’t tell that I bear the sigil of the Warden of the Grand Hutt Council?” She gestures to Lardai. “I bring the one who holds the Enforcer’s chair for this year, as well.”

Geddan stares at Lardai, then moves his eyes back to Hefella. “My mistake,” he says with a dry inflection that Daani wouldn’t have thought possible.

“You might not be so flippant, when you’re dangling from a strangling rack, choking your benighted life out,” she finishes. Her voice manages to grow more official in tone, in spite of the squeak. “Geddan od Grontic be’ Desaljic, you are summoned to Nal Hutta to face a tribunal of the Grand Council. We’re to take you, now.”

Geddan stares at her, then at Lardai. “On what charge?” he asks calmly.

“Your dues to the Council have been found to be counterfeit. We charge you with embezzlement.”

A look of what Daani can only call incredulity crosses Geddan’s face. He starts to speak, but several blue concentric rings of blasterfire intersect with him. His own guards are stunned as well. The crowd falls silent.

Lardai produces a control collar. One that is large enough for a Hutt’s meaty neck.

As the four thugs accompanying Hefella sling their rotary blasters and start to manhandle Geddan out, Daani looks at Sorentin. Face and Gral Kruvure walk over to them.

“We’re going to have to let Naatha know,” Sorentin says, “as well as my daughter. Shyla may be out a scumbag benefactor.”

“As well as a way to get to Kessel to get Ardalen out of there,” Daani says.

Face holds up a comm. Daani wonders where she managed to hide it. That question is answered when she sticks it in Gral’s loincloth.

Daani notices—out of professional curiosity only—that the comm’s placement is a tight fit.

“Lassa’s already notified,” Face says, “as is a certain passenger or two. They were already headed to Nal Hutta; they’re already working on it from that angle, ever since we got the inkling that this slug was in the shit.”

They turn to exit. As they do, Kruvure growls at Rhayme, “Next time, you wear the goddamned loincloth.”

His reply is lost to the others.

**Mandalore**

Bryne puts his bottle of netra’gel down and lifts another two bottles for them both, opening them deftly. Iris gazes back at him, her eyes crinkled in a warm smile.

He takes a sip of the dark, spicy ale and then meets her gaze. His eyes play over her form, clad in an off-the-shoulder black velvet dress, that shows her sculpted arms and shoulder to best advantage. He once again notes that her neck and wrists are covered; his eyes do fall over a nasty scar on the left side of her bare stomach. He shakes his head. When she had greeted him at the door of the leased Mandal Motors corporate executive apartment’s door, she had taken him in his arms and kissed him gently.

He had taken the opportunity while returning her hug to place a hand on the small of her back, seeing if his theory about her weapons preference could be confirmed.

It could not; she was probably still armed, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to go feeling around any further.

There were indications, including from her tongue in his mouth when she greeted him, that he might get to explore other places for weaponry on her after dinner.

Bryne looks with satisfaction at the remnants of their meal. The bone-in nerf-steak, marbled to perfection and grilled, if he could say so himself, to perfection, also, as well as the vegetables and the accompanying root-vegetable casserole.

He had offered her wine to accompany the meal, but was pleasantly surprised when she had asked for the ale of her homeworld as the beverage of choice.

He had realized that they hadn’t spoken once of his purported reason for their meeting—the whisky distribution for their restaurant, except when he had introduced her to a couple of different single malt varieties that he had with him. She had listened attentively to his description of what she should be looking for in a whisky tasting.

Iris had avoided any questions that he had posed about her boss. She had told him that they would have to meet at some point.

She continues the light conversation about her family, as they get up and walk over to the overstuffed sofa, their ale bottles in hand. “—I get to see my buir’e at least twice a week, even though they’re out in Keldabe,” she continues. She looks down. “They still talk to me.”

He nods. “How’d you wind up with the Unwanteds?” he asks. “With the name, I thought most of them were cast out.”

Her expression darkens, then lightens almost immediately. She grins. “Not exactly. I’m in a different category. I’m management. My father sent me as apprentice after the Mandalorian Academy, to put, ah, other skills than breaking shit to use.” She looks away from him, her eyes refusing to meet his for a moment.

He matches her grin. “Management by breaking shit?”

“Exactly,” she replies, the laughter evident.

As they put their bottles down, it seems only natural that they stare into each other’s eyes, green meeting amber.

Just as it seemed natural for her to place her hands on the side of his face and bring his lips to hers.

They are quiet as both of them try to see who will devour whom, first.

He feels her hand moved down to his trousers, rubbing over him as his lips play over her breast above the bodice of the off-the-shoulder dress.

He is not surprised when she is able to unfasten his trousers with one hand. Hand-eye coordination is important to a Mando warrior.

Even moreso when she moves her hand down in his pants.

He is about to reciprocate when he sees a hint of movement out of the corner of his eye. He focuses on the small balcony, and the open window.

A figure stands there in black beskar’gam, the hands moving to the buy’ce. He doesn’t start and manages to keep Iris from drawing on the interloper, from wherever her blaster is.

It’s quite possible that his hand might be closer to it, now.

The helmet comes off, revealing a smirking face topped by dark brown curls with a hint of dark green, gold, and purple highlights.

Tamsin, the captain of the _Jamestyn’s Hope_ , his transport to Mandalore, allows her grin to grow as her hazel eyes move over both of their deshabille.

Iris stares back at her, not bothering to move the bodice of her top fully over her left breast as she listens to Bryne’s introductions. Tamsin smiles at it, then up at her face. Iris returns her expression and her gaze in kind.

“You’re here for a reason?” Bryne asks.

She turns her eyes back to him. “Got some assholes in jetpacks moving toward the _Hope_ with a purpose,” she says.

“Yeah, so? You do have turbolasers,” he retorts.

“Yes, dear,” she snarks back, “but the Imperial light cruiser hovering inside the city’s environmental shield, just might have a problem with us opening up on them with capital ship weapons. Especially if it turns out to be just some pissed off husbands and/or wives looking for you.”

He starts to says something, but instead just manages, “point taken.”

“Those husbands and wives could be here for me,” Iris says, examining her nails.

Tamsin looks at her with much more interest. Bryne stands up and zips his pants up. He reaches over to a small ornamental trunk and pulls out a gunbelt. Iris lifts her skirt, standing and pulling her underwear up, as well as drawing a smaller WESTAR from a thigh holster. Bryne smirks at her and says, “I almost found it.”

He turns and looks at Tamsin. “I’m supposing you can get back up without crashing in your shiny new jetpack, right?” he asks skeptically.

“You shouldn’t believe everything that Fulcrum-twit tells you,” she says. Without another word, she turns and runs towards the patio, leaping and triggering the jetpack.

Bryne turns to Iris. “I don’t have time to put my armor on,” he says, “and I hate jetpacks. Let’s hit the elevator.”

Iris grins. “Nice to know about the jetpack. Hope you don’t have any other system failures,” she says.

“My deece works fine,” he says, “I have references.”

“Would the good Captain Tamsin be one?” she asks as they run towards the lift

“I don’t kiss and tell,” he replies as the lift starts towards the roof.

It opens a moment later, but neither of them can exit as Bryne shoves her down to the deck. Blaster bolts strike the walls where their heads had been.

They look out cautiously from a lower vantage point, but there is no fire, except in the near distance. They can only hear one jetpack, plus what sounds like a high performance speeder engine.

“You can get off of me, bud,” he hears in his ear, “but I might like to try this position at some point in the evening.” He starts as he sees Iris staring back at him where he lies on top of her. She reaches down and squeezes him, letting her hand linger. “Your deece seems to have no trouble with energy flow.”

He jumps up, just in time to see three smirks, as well as two beskargam’d figures lying on the ground.

Tamsin’s helmet is off again, accounting for one of the three.

A speederbike hovers with a very small figure at the controls and a much larger figured holding an old DC-15s clone carbine. Two other figures rocket away.

The little girl flying the speederbike, lowers it to the roof; both she and the large figure of her father jump off and walk towards him.

He engulfs his namesake, or at least one from a former name, in a hug. She smiles up at him with one dark amber eye and one navy blue.

Bryne looks up at her father. Instead, he stares at the look of recognition as Iris’s eyes fall on his now exposed face.

Drop gazes back at her, then at Bryne.

Iris looks at Bryne and says. “I gotta go. I’ll call you, bud,” she says.

She turns and runs for the elevator.

Bryne breathes out, just manages to cover Talle’s ears to her hard look, as Tamsin says, “Cockblocked!”

He and Drop look at one another. Bryne walks over and draws his vod into his arms.

“Got something to tell you, brother,” he says, “it may be hard to hear.”

**Ord Mantell**   
**CSF _Draq’stone_**

Nola sits in the crew lounge of the Draq’stone. Boge M’Faru, the ship’s erstwhile navigator and gunnery officer, pours her a cup of caf. The large ex-Peacekeeper from Alderaani and college smashball standout, sits next to her and immediately loses himself in his own thoughts. Nola is grateful; she doesn’t mind talking, but after a month on Ord Mantell in the closeness of the ship, while Meglann tried to arrange an audience with Black Sun had tested her sociability.

She sighs, sipping the caf. Boge smiles next to her. “She’ll be fine. As much as I’m not wanting to admit it, Ina’s come a long way.”

Nola returns his smile. “I know, Maxim,” she says, using his codename—the mythological ruler of the Eighth Hell of Corellia. Maxim the Watcher, ruler of the Realm of Shields. “Plus she’s got Fit with her. He grew up tough and can handle himself.”

“Even though he’s more of a lover than a fighter,” Boge observes.

“And how would you know that, bud?” she asks warmly. She is further warmed by the blush on his dark features.

“Murta told me,” Boge says, naming their pilot and another of the Hells. Damab the Steersman—the Ninth Hell and the Realm of Stars. Their shared laughter rises. Without a word, Nola moves her head and rests it on Boge’s massive shoulder.

“How do you feel about Meglann and Fit doing what they might be doing?” Boge asks.

Nola contemplates her answer for a moment. “I don’t know. They’re both adults and I’ve got to respect their agency and willingness to do what needs to be done, but I’d rather be doing it myself. I’ve been in a bath with Xizor, was ready to do what I needed—Handmaidens are prepared to do what they need to do to gather intelligence to protect the Queen—at least once they’re of age.” She examines her caf, then closes her eyes. “Those pheromones are powerful,” she finishes, a hint of worry in her voice, even to herself.

“How did the last time you were in Xizor’s bath go?” Boge asks.

She grins. “The only time, actually. He was surprisingly respectful—some safe conduct from family. When we got down to it, I engaged with Bryne and Shyla. They both seemed to pique his interest a great deal,” she finishes.

“I’d had experience with him,” Shyla says, walking into the lounge. Nola lifts her head from Boge’s shoulder. He looks at her expression, then lifts his caf cup and kisses her on the cheek.

“I’m right down the passageway,” he whispers against her skin.

Shyla eyes him, then sits in his place. She moves her lips to Nola’s, then reaches over and pours herself some caf from the pot, taking a moment to fix it to her liking.

“I hope Meglann can take care of herself,” she says. “I know the training that Fit has received from the House.”

“Meglann’s solid,” Nola replies. She takes a deep breath. “Unlike you.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Shyla asks, her anger spiking.

“It means that not everyone seems to share your death wish, getting into situations that we have to get you out of,” Nola replies.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, girl,” Shyla’s pale skin warms, as she turns to face her on the couch. “Everything I’ve done I’ve calculated out and ran the risks. The benefits were worth the rewards. Not too much different than what your Fulcrum does.” She looks away. “Just because I’m a spice addict, doesn’t mean I have a death wish. Anymore than you and your grief for your Queen and your lost.”

Nola knows that the pale skin of her face betrays her to the older woman, as the words hit home. She starts to rise. Shyla grasps her right arm gently then pulls her down, pulling her face against her chest. She brings her other arm around, completing the embrace. Nola is silent, she is now able to fight her emotions—to shrink them into a tiny box, as Ahsoka and Bryne, as well as Dani had taught her. She relaxes, resting against the ex-Diktat of the world that she now serves.

“We’ve all lost someone, Nola. You. Fulcrum. That man-child that you all seem to regularly take comfort from and give it to.” At that Nola snorts, but feels Shyla stiffen as she speaks her next words.

“Dani has, as well,” Shyla whispers. “Me, I lost an entire world to darkness. I’ve seen how Corellia has reverted back to its industries on the surface. I’ve seen the numbers of people now desperate to leave.”

Nola’s memory cuts through their conversation, the memory of the last time she had been in Coronet City’s spaceport, meeting a potential donor. A disturbance had drawn her attention as Imperial stormtroopers and a street gang of Grindalids had seized a young woman at the gate. She had seen the desperation on the young woman’s face, as well as the young man’s on the other side of the gate.

She’d not been able to get to the gate, to try and use the Dragon’s now meager influence to stop the Grindalids, before they had dragged the young woman away. She’d managed to hear the young man scream her name— _Qi’ra_.

The young man— _Han_ —had disappeared by the time she had gotten back to the gate. No one else had paid any attention.

“You would’ve been dead, Shy,” Nola says.

Shyla closes her eyes. “Maybe I should’ve just knelt and let them put the slugthrower in my mouth and have my brains decorate the Ending Wall,” she says. “Hell, I’ve heard they’ve gone back to using the vibroaxe at the Wall,” naming the traditional place of Corellan executions. A place that hadn’t been used in decades until the Empire had come into being.

Nola pulls her tighter. “Then we might not have you out in the shitholes of the universe, fighting for those people. I might not approve of your methods, Shyla, but I’m there with you.” She looks down. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been volun _told_ to be your security, as soon as we can get Ardalen back.”

Shyla shakes her head. “I don’t think you need to, Nola. You’ll do more good as the Conduit to Fulcrum and Covenant. I’ll make my own arrangements.” She grins. “I’m putting together a crew.”

“Yeah,” says a dry Mandalorian voice, “I guess I’m a major part of that.”

They look up. Kal Skirata stands in the hatch, along with Meglann and Fit.

Nola rolls her eyes at the look of triumph on both the younger pair’s faces. “Great. You’ll be insufferable, Ina,” Nola says.

“Yep,” Meglann says, blowing on her nails. Fit shoves her. “I think it was me that put him over the top,” he says in his newly acquired Corellian accent. _A natural mimic_ , Nola thinks.

“So what’s the word, hard chargers?” Shyla asks with amusement.

“He was in some mourning period. Didn’t even have to get naked,” Meglann says evenly, and with a telling glance to Nola. “He’ll see the four of us in awhile. I saved the tub, or at least a steam bath for that—some kind of ritual.” She grows serious. “Something’s up. He’s a bit antsy, if I can tell anything.”

Nola looks at Shyla, then at Kal. He nods. “I’ll be around. I’m not exactly welcome by Black Sun.”

Nola closes her eyes, hoping that Ahsoka and the pirates are having more luck.

**Mandalore**

The figure in beskar’gam shuts her jetpack off and touches down on the far building in Sundari’s late evening. She looks back at where the green-striped CR-90 is docked with the Mandal Motors annex. The other mercenary had already flown away, taking care to stay out of her line of fire as he fled.

The figure pulls her buy’ce off and looks at the building with an analytical gaze in her dark eyes. In a past life, she would’ve been more concerned with the defenses of the ship and the building, rather than the alliances surrounding it. She shakes her head, then lifts her vambrace up, punching a button on it.

A holocomm appears above her wrist. A figure with close-cropped blonde hair and hard gray eyes—visible even in the washed out holo, stares back at her.

“Report, Kozume,” Gar Saxon barks. She grits her teeth, thinking of how far she has fallen, reporting to one who had been a criminal, along with the head of the Shadow Collective, Maul.

She shoves the thought of how far the Empire has fallen, if it intends to go through with appointing him the Governor of this world, from her mind. “It’s as we suspected, alor,” she says. “They wouldn’t use the heavy weapons in defense of the ship and the Corellian.”

His eyes narrow, then crinkle in a smile. A smile that bears no warmth whatsoever. “Who fought you off?” he asks.

“The Unwanted, the Corellian, and someone in black beskar’gam. She exhales. “Then a small child and what could be her father showed up.”

Saxon grins without mirth. “I could say something about one of my troops being bested by a child, but we wanted this to happen.” His look turns hard. “Be sure that you don’t let it happen if we need to attack in earnest, or I’ll finish the job that the Navy’s blaster squad was supposed to complete.” The holo disappears.

Edan Kozume waits a moment. She grits her teeth at the memory of one hesitation, one weakness that had cost her everything.

A weakness that now had her in bondage to three different masters, all supposedly in service to the Empire. In addition to their own ends.

She activates the comm again. Dorith Panteer’s handsome face stares back at her. “Hello, Edan,” he says, with slightly more warmth than her first caller. “What news do you have?”

“Melis is with the Saxons, but she is mostly living at the Academy. The Saxons seem like they’re obsessed with the possibility of the old man or the oldest brother wielding ultimate power on Mandalore. It may be time to get someone into the Academy.”

“I already have someone on that, my dear Ensign,” the Moff of the Fondor sector says. “You worry about getting her away from the Saxons if you need to.” His eyes narrow just like Saxon’s, although the ridiculous mustache makes the expression less convincing. _No_ , she thinks, _I’ve borne the brunt of what he can do. I know he’s more dangerous than Gar._

She curses herself, wondering how she had gotten into this. Eden wonders if she should just let them detonate that piece of metal in her neck.

Her comm activates again. Her third set of masters—the ones that actually control that piece of metal—stare at her. Captain Phyllida Enolo and her pet stormtrooper, Commander Pem Bouva smile wolfishly at her.

**The Past: The Corellian Trade Spine — The Brothers’ Exit**

The young man lifts his gloved hand and runs it through the mop of blonde hair. His green eyes stare at the readouts on the console of the small _Gauntlet_ -class armed transport. He hears a noise in the co-pilot’s seat next to him. Fenn Shysa smiles at the toddler in a child’s transport seat.

The little boy looks at the consoles and its winking lights with studious concentration in his green eyes—eyes that Fenn, the boy’s mother, and their mother had shared.

Jame, _no, Taliesin_ , as the boy is known now, a gift from their grandfather with his contempt for the boy’s Corellian blood—even though the old man had respected Jamestyn Blackthorn—looks up at his uncle. For a moment, Fenn sees his twin sister—older by an hour or so, staring back at him in the gold flecked green eyes and the slightly—ever-so-slightly darker skin. Skin that was a gift from the old man who had been prepared to kill the boy.

All because of his birthright—abilities that he might be able to understand someday, with the proper training.

Something he may never get. He might be already too old to go to the people who would give him that understand. He looks down at what had once been immaculate beskar’gam. He’d managed to get the shit off of it, for the most part, the result of feeding the boy too many of the fruit that had sent them on this journey in the first place.

He sees the boy looking at him, then breaking out in the slow, crooked grin—the expression, besides the facial features that might be one of the only things that Taliesin had received from his Corellian father. Fenn shakes his head at the cheek of the boy, his grin matching Tal’s.

His grin fades as he thinks of his father and his reaction to the manifestation of the boy’s powers. He wonders if he would have drawn on his father and shot him, shot him in defense of a boy that might better have died for all of the turmoil that his birth had caused after the death of his mother and father.

On two worlds, apparently. _Between them_ , Fenn thinks, remembering what the boy’s new given name means in one of the ancient language of his father’s world—in spite of Zegon Shysa’s contempt for that side of the boy’s heritage. With the death of his mother shortly after Nadara, of some sudden disease—some had said that she had died of sadness, but those people had never known Corlyn Shysa—the status of the Mand’alor had been uncertain. Fenn’s mother’s plan of splitting the title between Nadara and Fenn, if anything happened to her would’ve been in place, with Adonai Kryze as regent, until Nadara’s and Jamestyn’s murder.

With Nadara’s death and then Corlyn’s, the title had been reclaimed in full from Clan Shysa, by the right of the House-Clan. Clan Kryze of House Kryze.

It would go to old man Kryze, then to his daughter in succession, when he finally expired.

Fenn shakes his head of dynastic thoughts as he remembers as his father’s bodyguard, a Mando with a Falleen’s face—in reality Zegon Shysa’s boon companion, when he might have been known by another name—one that isn’t known to Fenn, as he makes sure that Fenn gets out of the enclave. Jetto would’ve never acted against Zegon’s true wishes. They were that close.

This fact makes Fenn wonder if Zegon had felt remorse for his anger and had allowed Jetto to get them away from Zegon’s wrath.

He looks over and realizes that the Tal is now asleep. He reaches over and pulls the boy from his seat and lets him rest in his arms. Fenn smiles as he realizes that the boy continues to clutch a small beskar’gam-clad figure in his hand.

A light and small buzzing breaks into Fenn’s thought. He stares at the Corellian corvette emerging from hyperspace and then wheeling over to dock. Fenn sighs, then reaches down and kisses Tal on the forehead. He rises effortlessly as he hears the noises of the docking.

Fenn takes a deep breath as he waits for the hatch to open. He thinks of destiny, but also of family.

It takes many forms.

The hatch opens. A very tall figure with craggy features and piercing blue eyes smiles at him. “Hello, Shysa,” Draq’ Bel Iblis, the Dragon of Corellia says. “It’s been awhile.” He looks at the boy, his hard features softening.

Fenn kisses Tal again, then hands him over. “His name is Taliesin Croft,” he says.

After a moment, the Dragon nods. He turns and moves back into his ship.

Fenn stares at the small Mando toy figure, now resting on the deck where it had fallen.


	4. Don’t Take Your Guns to Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur_. - "Today is a good day for someone else to die."

Bryne Covenant looks down at the little girl lying asleep in his arms, then grins. _Not so little anymore_. He feels his heart twist at the memory of what she has to do in order to survive in the darkness. A darkness perpetuated by those who had ensured her life, albeit for a more twisted purpose. 

An experiment to see what kind of being could’ve been produced from the genetic material of a Jedi and a unique clonetrooper. 

One that he had just informed that he was more unique than they had thought. He notices that Drop is watching him hold his daughter. A slight smile quirks one side of his lips, making his expression slightly less fierce. 

“It’s hard work running the universe. Very tiring,” Drop says, his head inclining at Talle.

Bryne nods, looking down at the young girl named for him. “Yeah. She’s got to be tired to keep your big ass safe and in the universe.”

Drop nods, his expression growing distant. Bryne wonders if he is thinking of what he had just told him, or if he’s thinking about Elle Jaquindo, Talle’s Jedi mother and the love of his life. 

Somewhere out in the galaxy, with another young girl. One that she had given birth to, naturally. His own flesh and blood. 

“You okay, vod?” Bryne asks. He reaches out and places his hand on Drop’s thick shoulder.

“Yeah,” Drop responds. “I knew that I was different than the others, but I didn’t think I came from a different progenitor than Jango.” He looks at Bryne. “Do you think that might have something to do with the fact that my deece seems to be loaded with something other than blanks, like my brothers’ are?”

Bryne shrugs, being careful not to jostle his namesake. “I don’t know. I can’t tell what the longnecks were thinking. Or if they were even involved. Whoever contracted them might have contracted with other cloners—or even rogue elements. Might explain why they were so goddamned hot to study you.” His mind leaps with possibilities, as he contemplates the Sundari dawn outside the window of the apartment. “You seem to age a bit slower than the others,” he says. 

“Yeah. Maybe only a year and a half faster, once I reached a plateau. The other vode age about twice as fast. I developed as quickly as they did, though.”

“From what I was told, my grandfather looks like he’s in his fifties or sixties, even though he’s in his late seventies,” Bryne says. “I could that see whoever was behind this whole damned thing might’ve wanted some options in their troopers.”

“Do you think that I—or Zegon—could be a key to solving the aging problem with the others? With Rex if he’s still alive?”

Bryne reaches out and pulls his caf cup to him, taking a sip. “I don’t know, bud. I ain’t willing to find out if it’s something invasive and could harm you.” He sees Drop start to speak. “Don’t even think it. You got something more important to do,” he finishes, running his fingers through Talle’s hair. He grins wickedly. “I’m not sure that my compassion runs to the old man. He was ready to drown me, from what Fenn told me.”

Both of them chuckle quietly at that thought. “So this is a weird ass family,” Drop says. “My adopted father is my brother.”

Bryne shakes his head. “Family’s more than blood, son,” he says. 

He starts a pre-emptive eyeroll at Drop’s mischievous expression. “You think your grandpappy is responsible for certain enhancements that I have? Something you didn’t get from him?”

Bryne opens his mouth to reply, but another, warmer voice interrupts. 

“Yes. I’d like to know that as well,” Delilah Sal says. 

Both men start to rise as she stretches in the door of the bedroom. Bryne takes in her sleep-tousled strawberry blonde hair. Both men take in the amount of exposed slightly freckled skin in her brief nightgown. Her brown eyes move over Drop’s form. 

They soften as they fall on Talle. A soft smile that Bryne Covenant would’ve never thought possible, given her genetics and her current occupation flows over her features. 

“So what’s this about enhancements?” she asks. 

“Drop’s being delusional again,” Bryne replies. He makes sure that Talle is truly asleep.

“I volunteer to compare,” Delilah says, sticking her tongue just past her lips. “Not that you aren’t mildly entertaining, your Eminence, but—“

Bryne grins as Drop blushes, coloring a darker bronze. He had already explained the concept of the Untrusted Other of the Links to Drop, who had wondered why he seemed to be trusting both the Imperial Advisor of Corellia, and the daughter of someone who tried to kill him, his father’s first wife.

Something about turning a blaster on herself to add credence to a story that had saved Shyla Merricope’s life, after the ex-Diktat had killed someone who was a threat to all of them.

To a certain extent. 

“All this talk of science, reminds me,” she says, reaching down and appropriating his caf. She takes a sip and makes a face at the lack of cream. “I finally got an invite to dinner with the Saxons. Tonight.”

Bryne looks at her, waiting. “Your subject will be on a pass from the Academy. I’ll see if I can see what her situation is,” she says. He nods after a moment. 

“I’ll need a date,” she continues, “I think Gar wants to get something wet—that might be the reason he invited me.”

He’s thoughtful for a moment. “I can’t. We don’t know if they sent those scumbags after me or not.”

“I agree,” Delilah says. They both look at Drop, who immediately starts to blush and rise. “Oh, no,” he starts.

“Come on, Drop. I want to try an experiment,” Bryne says. 

“So do I,” Delilah says emphatically. 

Bryne rolls his eyes. “I want to see if they recognize you. Might be good for word to get back to Tarranic. If it already hasn’t from Iris.”

He looks at Delilah. “Behave,” he says. 

She sniffs, raising her nose, but keeping her eyes on Drop. “A girl can dream,” she whispers, just enough for both of them to hear. She turns and walks towards the bedroom. The nightgown slides off of her shoulders, dropping and exposing her body as she walks away. 

Bryne grins at Drop’s popped eyes. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he says.

* * *

Ahsoka only half listens to the conversation around her as she wrestles with the problem of whether or not they should risk everything to get the backing of what might be a disgraced Hutt. She recognizes the fact that they might need Geddan to ensure that they’re able to get Ardalen from Kessel and away from the grasping claws of her ex-lover, but she isn’t sure that she’s prepared to risk everything to get him out of the predicament that he had gotten himself into.

She shakes her head, wondering for the umpteenth time whether a Jedi (or not-a-Jedi, she reminds herself) is the best person to lead a hidden, ruthless organization—one that will have to at some point have blood on its hands. 

_What do you mean, at some point_? she thinks. Ahsoka guesses that the Jedi’s tenets of compassion do extend even to Hutts. At the same time, she wonders if she has already strayed to far from the teachings of her youth, if she is too quick to sacrifice the life of someone she doesn’t know.

Her thoughts soften as she remembers her first mission as a Jedi. She can feel the weight of the smelly, slimy Hutlet on her skinny shoulders as she tramps through the sand under the shrinking light of Tatooine’s twin suns. She laughs to herself as she remembers that she had described Rotta, the offspring of Jabba the Hutt as ‘cute’. 

_Wonder what Stinky’s up to?_ she thinks. She feels the grimace over her face as she thinks of what Rotta’s birthright is. Slavery, spice running, and other bestial crimes. She shakes her head, trying to clear it of thoughts of the past. 

Including the gratitude of Rotta’s father. Giving her and her Master her first experience of facing execution—more immediate than the one that the Republic gave her, but a little less immediate than what Pre Viszla had offered her. 

She tunes back into the conversation. “—it’s going to be hell getting to Geddan if he’s under arrest and under the guard of the Grand Council,” Lassa says.

“Mistress of the obvious,” Dani says. 

Ahsoka wonders why she had bothered tuning back in. 

Thyla speaks up, before weapons are drawn. “Enough, assholes,” she says, including her captain in that particular grouping, without hesitation. “Do we even need Geddan?” she asks, unconsciously echoing Ahsoka’s thoughts.

Ahsoka opens her mouth. “I think that we will. We haven’t heard from Malaky; we don’t even know where he is. Geddan might be our only chance to get safe passage to Kessel.” She looks away. “Plus, he might be the only one who can provide Shyla with the needed contacts to the underworld—ones that might be able to keep her safe.”

Something crosses her mind, even as she says it. 

Lassa voices it before she can. “What if some unofficial Corellians were to make a move to back Geddan against the Council? Jabba has been wanting more concessions from Corellia.” She grins. “Maybe the fierce huntress Jana Roshti. One who’s an independent contractor.”

They all turn towards Ahsoka as they hear one of her aliases mentioned. One established as a slightly shady adventuress, married to a powerful Pantoran senator. 

Ahsoka shakes her head. “No. Not just no, but hell no. As a matter of fact not just hell no, but fuck no.” She grins. “Jana’s muscle. That’s about her speed, rather than negotiating and being the talking head. Besides,” she adds, “she’s not smart enough. She’s only good for certain things.”

“We’ll ask the good Senator Chuchi if her wife’s any good for anything. We seem to have been bored by her the past few weeks,” Lassa says. She blows a kiss at the gesture from Ahsoka.

Ahsoka grows serious. “How about the Daughter of the Dragon? Maybe she’s gotten a bit unsavory—either that or bored by being the Electarine-Caretaker,” she says, looking at Dani. 

All of them grow thoughtful, except, that is, said Dragonspawn. She opens her mouth to protest. “Now wait just a damned minute,” she says, her skin flushing and her eyes starting to transition to the black—not for a reason that they usually change colors, either.

“Oh come, on, twit,” Lassa says, “just because you have a nightstick shoved up your ass, doesn’t mean that you can’t do undercover. You were pretty convincing on the Opportunity, back before I cut you.”

Dani’s eyes widen at the backhanded compliment. After a moment, she nods. Thyla stands up and seizes both Dani and Lassa by their arms. “Let’s go, twits,” she starts, “we need to figure this out. I think we need to let Fulcrum talk to somebody. Somebody we all agree that she needs to, even if it’s just for comm sex.”

Ahsoka starts to rise as they leave the room. As if on cue, her secure comm beeps. A brief shot of three or four beings thrusting against one another fills the holocomm space. She does get a quick glimpse of lekku flying and twining, from both Togruta and Twi’lek. _I really need to speak to Phygus Baldrick. The rebellion shouldn’t piggyback its secure comms on a holoporn channel._ She does take a second look, for professional and scientific comparisons. _Nope, done that before._

The moaning and skin-on-skin sliding is replaced by another, more familiar face. A more welcome one as well. The face of one that she’s tried some of the more acrobatic moves made in the holo with. The crooked grin makes her heart flip. 

“So, picking up any pointers from _Banging Lekku_ , Runt?” he asks.

“Nope. Didn’t even watch it long enough to learn the title, Bait,” she says dryly. She sees his own smile soften as she gives her own trademarked expression—one that is almost genetic among the hunters and huntresses of her world. She is sure that his heart is doing some acrobatics of its own.

“So what’s going on in your world?” Bryne asks. “I’ve suddenly discovered that my grandfather—the one who threw me out of the house when I was three years old might hold the key to his whole thing of trying to keep Ardalen’s daughter out of Panteer’s grasp.”

Ahsoka’s eyes track downward. She shakes her head and puts as much lightness in her voice as she can. “Nothing much here, Bryne,” she replies. “Guess I’m making progress. Dani hasn’t stabbed Lassa and Lassa hasn’t spaced Dani.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” Bryne intones, “or is it the cheesemakers? I can’t remember which.”

Their laughter rises, then falls as they both realize how much they miss each other, in spite of the company they keep with others of their circle. 

“We’ve been having too many missions where we’re separated,” she whispers.

He nods. “I know. I’m ready for a mission where I’m just your plucky sidekick,” he replies. “Tell me about what you’re doing, Runt. Everything.”

As she starts to speak, she stares at his face. He watches her as he listens, as if drinking in every pixel of her face through the holocomm.

* * *

Drop shakes his head as Gar Saxon allows his lips to linger on Delilah’s hand, his blue eyes staring at her cleavage in her own custom version of an ISB white tunic. He shifts his own eyes to Delilah’s face, which remains blank. He shoves his way over and holds out his plate-sized hand in front of Gar’s face, causing him to recoil slightly. 

Anger flows over Saxon’s hard features, but the anger is just as quickly gone as he takes in Drop’s size. Gar’s blue eyes widen as they lock on Drop’s features. “Tarre Tredecima,” Drop says smoothly. He resists the urge to squeeze the Saxon’s own paw. A glance over at the second Saxon shows an expression of amusement on Tiber’s, as he had been offhandedly introduced, calculating, bland features. One that disappears almost immediately, just as Gar’s anger had grown. 

Drop tries not to visualize what someone else would say about the two brothers. _Dumb and bland, versus calculating and bland._

They move forward into the house. As they do, Delilah reaches over and kisses his cheek. He nods and smiles slightly as she moves away from him, an almost girlish look of shyness on her features. Drop feels the smirk crease his face, she then returns his expression. Her hand moves onto his bicep as they walk. 

They come into a small, well appointed room. _Well-appointed if you’re into ancient and modern weapons and armor_ , Drop thinks. Two tall young women in an Imperial cadet’s uniform and an Imperial officer’s uniform, respectively, rise. 

The slightly older one with a shaven head, gives a tiny wink in his direction. He remembers the one brief time he had met the new Yard-mistress of the Dao-Aspeff Yard on Fondor. Right after she had drilled an Imperial relation of Meglann’s between the eyes with a clone’s old DC-15 long rifle.

The other young woman bows her head to Delilah, her mass of dark curls bound back in a ponytail. Delilah eschews military tradition and walks over to her, taking both hands in hers. The girl’s full eyebrows rise in surprise, but her own warm smile moves over her bronze features.

He hadn’t yet met Ardalen Nath, this young woman’s purported mother, but he hopes he soon does, as the power of the young woman’s gaze at him bowls him over. He grins and holds out his hand. She grasps it with much more warmth than the usual Imperial cadet would give. 

“My younger ward-sister, Melis Saxon,” Gar says. He looks at Yelena Dao, who returns his gaze evenly. He appears to be about to dismiss her when his younger brother clears his throat. 

“Tetrarch Yelena Dao, 15th Yard-mistress of the newly rejoined Dao-Aspeff Shipyard,” Tiber says, “on assignment from the Fondor Militia.” 

“Where’s your father—Jak, Gar?” Delilah asks smoothly, as they move into dinner. Gar’s eyes flash at the impertinence of a mere civil servant. Delilah doesn’t seem to notice, or she chooses to ignore it. She gives him an imperious glance, of her own, reminding him what a white uniform in Imperial service actually means. Either someone who could ‘disappear’ him, or someone with enough rank to make him wish he’d disappeared.

“He’s indisposed tonight,” Tiber smoothly replies for his brother. “He sends his regrets.”

Gar gives an exasperated look at his brother at the second time that the younger Saxon has spoken for him. Drop gives a quick smile at the interplay. _Little bit of tension, there_ , he thinks. _The blunt brawn versus the smooth brains. They both think they should be Viceroy._

Delilah nods back at him, merely the tiniest up-and-down motion.

After the pissing contests have all been put away, they sit for a dinner. Drop tries to remember the very few deportment lessons he had been given once he had become a staff NCO. _Very few._

Delilah nods approvingly at him, as he manages not to slurp the soup placed in front of him. He looks to his right at Melis Saxon. 

“So what are you studying at the Academy?” he asks. He tries not to wince at the banal question. Next to him, Yelena Dao manages to stifle her smirk. Across the table, ensconced between the Grim Brothers, Delilah smiles at him. Surprisingly, he sees no judgment in her face, only warmth as she listen to Tiber and Gar’s incessant prattle about their holdings or some such. _Might as well talk about the length of their deece barrels_ , he thinks, making sure that he concentrates on Melis. 

Melis gives him that warm smile again, making him feel like he’s the most important thing in her universe, now. He’s pretty sure that came from Ardalen, not Dorith Panteer, based on what others had told him. He manages to keep the smirk off of his face as he remembers Nola’s assessment of the Alderaani noble turned Imperial Moff. _If he could fuck himself, he would._

“I haven’t decided,” she replies. “I’m in the stormtrooper/special ops band right now, but I’d rather be a pilot. Just need to get a couple of scores up a smidge.” She rolls her eyes. “Of course, somehow I’m showing aptitude for being an engineer. Wonder where the hell that came from, in this family.”

 _Oh, I think that I know, my girl_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. The holo of the former Seppie engineer who is the subject of his whole circle-jerk flashes into his mind. He manages to keep the surprise off of his face at her words. He sends a look to Delilah, who is watching out of the corner of her eye.

 _She doesn’t know that she’s not a Saxon_. He turns his head back to Melis; he sees her downcast expression. He touches her hand gently, as gently as someone of his size and disposition can. “You okay, my lady?”

She rolls her eyes at that. “Not a lady, sir, just a cadet.” He sees her eyes move over his features. “Pardon my rudeness, sir, but are you a former GAR trooper?” His estimation of her goes up a notch at the term that she uses, rather than ‘clonetrooper’. 

He grins. “One, I ain’t a sir. I work for a living. Call me Drop. As for your question, it’s not rude, but I’d prefer not to answer it.”

Once again, that warmth moves over him like the brightness of a sun. “Fair enough,” she says. She looks down again, the warmth evaporating. “I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” she whispers. 

The sadness in her voice cuts into Drop’s being. He turns his full attention on her, but she says nothing else. He wonders what she means by that. 

_Family or occupation?_

He feels Yelena take his other hand in hers, under the table. He shifts his attention to her. Her eyes, currently locked on the dark from their spectrum of colors, stare at him. Her hand draws away. He pockets the datachip she’d palmed.

“Could you take me back to the transport station? I’d really like to get out of here,” Melis says. 

He looks over at Delilah and then Yelena. “We might be ditching our dates,” he replies. 

She grins, then looks over at Delilah. She has somehow managed to keep a bored expression off of her face, but he’s not sure if she’s in the safest place. 

Delilah rolls her eyes, then nods at his signal. Yelena reaches over and whispers in his ear. “Go. Escort her back to the station. I’ll keep an eye on your date. It might be amusing, watching her take those idiots down a peg.”

He rises as Melis walks over to her brothers. Gar dismisses her quickly, his interest in the dark eyes of Delilah Sal clearly taking precedence. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t put the cadet’s helmet on as they walk into the warm night, her hand through his arm. 

“What did you tell them?” he asks. 

“That you’d escort me back—the truth. I also told them that I felt safe around you. That you felt comfortable. Advisor Sal agreed with my assessment.”

_Comfortable?_

_Yep, Pops. You’re officially old_ , says the voice of a small girl in his mind. You’re comfortable.

* * *

Iris looks up from her datapad as the door from Tarranic’s living quarters starts to open. She sighs and returns to work, sorting receipts from various high-credit meals. She feels a presence walk over to the couch where she works and wait expectantly. She starts to huff in annoyance, but manages to cut the sound off. She closes her eyes, then opens them, looking up at Leeza Antol. 

The new ‘employee’, with an impertinence that most refrain from showing around her, stares down at her with a slight smirk on her face. Iris notices that Leeza, or _Majorina_ , as Iris had taken to calling her—no doubt to annoy the woman—since she had been open about where her mythosaur had been tied up—hasn’t bothered to close her robe, displaying her body to the ‘minion’ of the man whose bed she had just left. Iris runs her eyes over the Imperial’s body, noting the slight glow and unhealed, nasty scar of her chest.

“Seen it all before, honey,” Iris says. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been in that bed before, probably doing some of the same things that you’ve spent several nights doing.” She smirks. “He does like to be ridden,” she adds. 

The ex-Imperial smiles, but doesn’t bother closing the robe. She comes over and sits next to Iris, reaching over and appropriating Iris’s rum. Iris grits her teeth, not giving in to the urge to break some appendage, as she would with anyone else.

 _Allit_ , she thinks. _This woman is supposedly clan to the alor_. She takes a deep breath.

“So how the hell did you wind up on Mandalore?” she asks. _I guess I’ll try small talk_ , she thinks.

“I trusted a woman I shouldn’t have,” comes the reply. 

“Did you honestly think that another Imp would be trustworthy?” Iris asks. 

“Maybe. Don’t know. I thought that promises of power would keep her in check. Guess she wanted more than I would give her,” Leeza replies. She looks down at the glow of the artificial heart/lung combination.

In spite of herself, Iris reaches out and runs her index finger lightly over the glow and the hard plastic. She adds other fingers as she moves to the scar over skin.

“How did you manage this?” Iris asks. 

“Apparently another scumbag, working for Secor—or Malikarus, whichever you like, had another debt to someone else. I woke up staring at a rival from the ISB, but one who seemed more honorable than most. He told me that someone else, more powerful than either of them now held my leash.” She reaches up and places her hand over Iris’s. “It feels good when someone else touches it, without showing fear or worse, yet, curiosity.”

Iris nods. Leeza looks down ruefully. “I don’t know what other surprises my new owner built in. I could drop dead at any time and not be any the wiser.”

“You think Tarranic might spring for a doctor or meddroid to check?” Iris asks. She removes her hand, but leans into Leeza, her head against her shoulder. She feels Leeza stiffen, then relax. 

“I don’t know. He might have another plan,” Leeza replies.

“I doubt it,” Iris says. “He is usually pretty fucking direct in what he’s going to do. You’d already be dead, if he wanted it.”

Iris looks up as her comm signals. The new hire’s armored form comes up. She can feel the eyes of the woman on Leeza. “Go ahead with your report,” Iris says. “Sister Antol is one of us now and trusted by the Vheh’yaim.”

“I’ve had no luck in finding out who attacked Covenant. They were mercs, although there may be some connection to offworlders.”

“How about the Saxons?” Iris asks. 

“Not so far. I wouldn’t put it past them, though, to be involved.”

“Very well. Make sure that Covenant is followed. Make sure he’s protected, although feel free to use him to draw out the attackers.” The soldier nods, then disappears. Iris feels Leeza’s dark gaze on her. “What?”

“I’d be careful of Covenant. I’ve dealt with him before, in my, ah, previous capacity,” Leeza says. A smile quirks her lip. “My official one.”

“We’ve got some good business opportunities with him. Tarranic doesn’t want him broken, just yet,” Iris says. She makes sure that she avoids Leeza’s gaze, burrowing her face against the plastic of the exposed pulmonode.

“You sure that’s your motivation, sweetie? There are other pretty faces out there,” Leeza says.

Iris smiles. _I’ll let her think that’s it._

“I want him safe, for now,” says a deeper voice. They both look to the door of the bedroom. Tarranic Vheh’yaim stands there, clad in his own robe. 

“If my alor’ad wants to open her legs to gain an advantage, I’ll not fault her,” he says. He looks at Leeza. “Just as I wouldn’t fault you, cyar’ika.”

“For the good of all Unwanted,” Iris intones. 

Tarranic smiles. “For the good of all Unwanted,” he repeats. He looks at Leeza.

After a moment, she nods. “For the good of all Unwanted.”

Iris tries to discern her sincerity as Tarranic walks over. He reaches down and kisses Leeza, then moves over to Iris, giving her a longer kiss.

* * *

Bryne makes his way through the night. His mind is only half on his path, only half on his surroundings. Instead, his mind tracks back to his call with Ahsoka. He had played every word that she had spoken over and over again for the last several hours, as well as every expression.

He shakes his head, as he realizes that he has wandered far away from anywhere he had been during his month or so here. _Snap out of it, dumbass,_ he thinks. _You can’t help her if you’re not focused_. Unsurprisingly, the small voice in his head is a mix of light voices. One, a high clear voice that he had replayed in his head.

The other, the lightly accented voice of the Ti’ane, the clan-lands of his beloved master. Bryne sighs, still wondering if he is actually insane. All of what he knows in the Force tells him that those in the Cosmic Force don’t retain any of their consciousness. He wonders if his ability to hear his master has anything to do with his exposure to the Asundrance, several months ago on Felucia. Ti had hinted to him that he wouldn’t get rid of her that easily. He remembers other times that his dead—not just those with Force sensitivity had spoken with him. His heart twists as he thinks of one of those. A powerful young woman with a broken nose and a devilish smile, who had told him of her love.

Even after she was dead, slaughtered by Imperial commandos, along with her unborn child. A beskar smith—one of those highly sought after crafters—one with an almost mystical, spiritual bond with the substance. 

He feels a sharp stab of energy in his neck, located just above his spine. _Well, something’s working_ , he thinks, as his hand moves towards his blaster. 

A figure in red beskar’gam lands next to him. He relaxes; he can almost feel the warmth from the intruder. The buy’ce comes off, revealing a dark, smiling face with two jewels on the right side of her lower lip, along with another jewel in the opposite nostril.

“Hey, Cyn,” he says. “You back with the Handmaidens? Or are you still on the First’s shit list?”

She rolls her dark eyes. “Storae’ still has some poker shoved up her ass. I’m the only Handmaiden out among the stars rather than just sitting around on my ass sipping tea with the Queen. Another acquaintance of ours asked me to cover your back. A huntress that I’d still like to get to know better.”

It is his turn to roll his eyes. “Everybody wants to. I don’t see it, myself,” he replies. 

“Bullshit, sweetie,” Cyn Eldar snorts, “everybody can see it a parsec away. You’ve got it bad.” She reaches over and kisses him quickly. 

“You got something for me, or did you come here for a quickie in the bushes of this delightful park?”

“Now who’s got an overinflated sense of their attractiveness?” She grows serious. “Just talked to the bosslady at the restaurant. I’m supposed to keep looking after your ass, as well as finding who tried to put a couple extra holes in it.” She shakes her head. “She might have a thing for your ass, I don’t know.”

“Anything?”

“Nope. They’ve all gone to ground. At least it ain’t the Unwanteds,” she finishes. 

She shoves him to the ground, as a blaster bolt strikes the back of her beskar’gam. He manages to get his blaster out, but can’t see the source.

The reason becomes apparent as a hooded corpse drops out of a tree, a nasty ruin of the figure’s head readily apparent.

Another figure drops from the wall of the park, a smoking rifle in her hands. 

Yelena Dao steps out into the dim light. “Have I got to do everything for you?” she asks. Another few steps and she stands over them both. “Come on. I need a drink.”


	5. I’ve Been Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family is more than blood. On so many worlds.

Drop looks down at the young woman walking next to him. As they were getting closer to the Academy, Melis had taken her arm away from his and had placed the cadet’s helmet on her head. She had left the faceplate up, allowing him to see the expressions on her mobile features.

He feels a twinge in his chest as he thinks of his own daughter, Talle. The twinge turns to one of intense pride—pride in what she is becoming, in spite of his own fumbling attempts at parenthood. _She’s all her mother_ , he thinks.

Some portion of him, the one that sounds like Bryne Covenant, expresses its opinion on that thought in one very succinct, eloquent word in Basic.

_Bullshit._

Some of that voice in his head sounds like a musical, but dry, Chalactan accent, rather than the Corellian-with-hints-of-MandoSouth of his brother.

He shoves that portion away, but recognizes that he might have had more to do with Talle’s upbringing than the mere genetic relationship with the love of his life, the Jedi Elle Jaquindo.

Drop doesn’t allow himself to think of his missing. He notices that Melis is looking up at him as they walk. He tries to ignore the question in that searching gaze.

So she articulates it. “Are you okay, Drop?” she asks.

He manages to bring a smile to his face, vanquishing the thoughts of the past. “I’m okay, dear,” he says. “Just thinking of the past, and of someone who you remind me of.”

“Who, if I may ask?” she adds, noticing his expression.

“She’s a few years younger than you, but she’s already growing into someone who I think is just like you. My daughter, Talle,” he says. He weighs his options, then brings out his comm, bringing up a holo—one in which she happens to be scowling at him in mock anger, but with a hint of a smile moving to her lips and eyes.

“She’s beautiful, Drop. I can see a lot of you in her. Particularly in the snark I detect. Let me guess, she’s reading you the riot act.”

“Got it in one, darlin’,” he replies with a grin. “She’s good at it.”

Melis looks down. “I never had anyone that I could read the riot act to. My father and my brothers never really gave me any warmth. I don’t know if it’s a Mando thing, or just a Saxon thing.”

Drop feels his anger rise, but quashes it. “I don’t know, either. I’ve seen at least one Mando father with his little boy. I never get any lack of warmth from that relationship. Of course, he might not be the best example. He did adopt me and gave me a Mandalorian name.”

Melis smiles. “What is it? Your Mando name?”

“Tarre,” he replies.

She nods with satisfaction. “The first Mando Jedi,” she replies. Her smile grows. “I can see it. You’ve already shown me, just in the few hours I’ve known you that you have the heart of what the old stories say about the Jedi. Before they turned on the Republic.”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” he replies. He hopes that his reply is vague enough to stop any questions about that time.

Melis nods after a moment, taking this in. She reaches up and touches his face. “You remind me of someone as well. He looks just like you, except he’s older and has an eyepatch.”

Drop tries to keep the triumph off of his face. Sabacc! he thinks. “Oh yeah?” he asks with as much innocence as he can muster.

“Yeah. Met him in a park when I was on a few hours’ pass. We talked, just like you and I are doing now. He really listened to me, just like you.” She looks off into the distance at the Academy. “I’ve met him at least once a week since then.”

“Sounds like someone who has a lot of good sense,” he says, wincing at the lameness of that response.

She doesn’t appear to notice. He takes a deep breath, wondering if he should chance the next question.

“Do you remember your mother?” he asks. Her eyes flash for a brief moment, then calm, as he holds that deep breath.

“No. I don’t. My father and brothers never mention her. I get the idea that I don’t share a mother with those two lunkheads.”

 _You have no idea, sweetie_ , he thinks. “Oh, really? Why’s that?”

He sees the gleam in her eye. “Because I can use words of more than one syllable, that don’t involve ‘power’ or ‘Viceroy’.”

They see passerby stopping to look at the large male in a business suit and the young Imperial cadet doubled over in laughter.

Drop looks up, realizing that they are near the security checkpoint. “Better put your faceplate down. Don’t want to get a demerit,” he says.

She reaches up, as if to comply, then stops. Melis looks around, then places her face against his broad chest. He engulfs her in his arms, holding her tightly for a moment. He feels something like moisture against his fancy shirt.

She finally pushes him away, looking down and inspecting her uniform for any flaws. Her eyes return to his face. “I’ve got some leave in another ten-day. I’ll see if I can spend some time with you. I’d love to meet Talle, if I could,” she says.

At that, she reaches up and closes her faceplate. A look left and right, and she is gone, leaving Drop to his thoughts.

He thinks that he might like to meet the old man she had described.

* * *

Bryne follows Cyn into the small winebar, the only thing that they could find that resembled a cantina to sit down and share about what they know. He glances behind him; Yelena had quickly disassembled her rifle and placed the components in shoulder bag. A cloak had appeared from the same bag and concealed her Imperial uniform.

The denizens of the bar had eyed Cyn’s scarlet beskar’gam with widened eyes. Most of them were business-clad young professionals from Mandal Motors and other corporations and government offices in the capital. He smirks at the undercurrent of fear as they quickly turn away. He shakes his head as he thinks of the meaning of the scarlet armor that Cyn wears.

_Defiance._

The three of them bypass several prime empty tables, all with the privacy that they would need. Bryne narrows his eyes as they enter a long corridor marked ‘Refreshers’. They bypass those rooms and move into a small storage closet. Cyn pushes a button on her right vambrace. The room starts to descend, or at least the floor does. As they move downward, the walls seem to change, morphing into much older stone as they descend.

The lift lurches to a stop. Bryne’s hand moves to his blaster as he spots a bas-relief of a mythosaur skull.

The signet of the original True Mand’alor—Mandalore the First, conqueror of these half-mythical beasts.

Cyn lifts her hand, waving it at a particular inset panel. The door snaps open.

Bryne suddenly realizes that he’s now the one dressed inappropriately for the room.

About a half-dozen figures in beskar’gam of various colors and styles sit around several tables. One, a particularly large individual, walks over to them, unslinging a WESTAR carbine.

“They’re with me. One of them is Mando’ad,” she says. The figure slings the carbine and motions them to a table. He holds out his hand, expectantly.

“Since you don’t have beskar’gam, you’ll have to surrender your weapons,” Cyn says.

Bryne stares at her, then looks at Yelena. Yelena curses and hands over the case. She opens it. Bryne draws his DL-44 and places it in the case, which is handed to the bouncer of the day.

They sit at a table in the back. Three bottles of ice cold netra’gel, the dark, spicy Mando ale appear, as if by magic.

“I’ve a message for you from the Kalbuir,” Cyn says. Bryne starts with recognition of that nickname.

“Really? I didn’t think the old bastard had anything more for me, since J’oh died,” Bryne says, an edge to his voice.

“He loves you like his sons, Bryne,” Cyn says. Yelena watches and listens. “He said he only hopes that you find peace.” She looks down. “With Ahsoka,” she adds in a whisper.

He is silent. Yelena reaches over and takes his hand, squeezing it. After a moment, he nods. “Okay. So you’ve passed the message on. Let’s talk about what you’ve learned about Melis.”

“You don’t understand, Covenant,” she says with exasperation. “That’s part of the message.”

He feels his anger rise. “What would Kal know about her?”

Cyn reaches out and touches his cheek. “That’s just it. He’s a part of this whole thing.”

Bryne feels his anger fade, replaced by suspicion. “Go on,” he finally says.

“Kal worked for the Unwanteds. He wasn’t cast out from Skirata, but he felt adrift, trying to figure out what he would do, in all of the turmoil. He met Tarranic’s right hand, a Falleen who grew up on Mandalore named Jetto Wasablim. Jetto took him under his wing. Tarranic had taken a liking to him as well.”

Cyn lifts her drink, inserting the tube under her buy’ce. She drains the bottle in one or two gulps, then signals for another. Bryne lifts his and savors the sip. Yelena makes a face after her sip, setting the bottle down.

“He worked for them for a dozen or so years. He was actually one of the first Vheh’yaim, after Tarranic appeared on the scene.

 _After he threw me out from Clan Shysa, then left himself_ , Bryne thinks. He remains silent, listening.

“Tarranic was approached by a woman that he owed—a Zeltron. She came to collect. A baby would come to Mandalore, he was to foster the child and look out for her. She would be his to raise.”

“Naatha Beten’ii,” Bryne says. “Did she tell him why?”

Cyn shakes her head. “Only that she needed to be kept safe from her father. Her mother had to go underground as well, as the father was a powerful man on several worlds. Including the one that had taken the mother in.”

Bryne can feel the grin under the buy’ce. “Damned sentimental Corellians,” she says, “they’ll take anyone in. About like Mando’ade,” she says, the warmth in her voice apparent, even disguised by the bucket.

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “They’ll even take the ones that Manda’yaim rejects.” He sees Yelena look at him at the sharp tone.

Cyn nods. She takes a sip of ale again, as does Bryne. Yelena pushes hers to the center.

“What happened?” Yelena prods.

“Tarranic assigned Jetto and Kal to the task. His two most trusted alor’ade. Something went wrong. They were ambushed right after the pickup. They were heavily outnumbered. They both fought like demons, but they were handicapped by trying to guard the baby, who was a newborn.”

“Jetto was captured, along with the girl. Tarranic was crushed and angry at Kal and his perceived failure. Angry enough that Kal felt he had to run.”

“Why didn’t Tarranic try to find out who took her?” Bryne asks.

“He knew who took her. He just wasn’t in any real position to take her away. The Unwanteds could’ve been wiped out. He had a responsibility to his warriors and their families. That’s when they got more involved with criminal activities. Mostly strongarm protection for the highest bidder, but some stolen tech and such. He went legitimate a bit as well. All to provide for the Unwanteds and to someday get powerful enough to challenge the Saxons.”

“Yeah. He’s a regular humanitarian,” Bryne says darkly. Cyn looks at him, her T-visor unreadable.

“What is it with you?” Cyn asks.

“Nothing of note. Is Tarranic powerful enough to get the kid, now?”

“Maybe. I get the sense from his soldiers that he’s biding his time.” The T-visor locks on him. “They get the idea that he’s trying to make up for something in his past,” she finishes.

 _Yeah, three guesses what that might be_ , Bryne thinks. “What else?”

“Rumors. Rumors that the time schedule may be moving up. There’s talk of him suddenly being in a weakened position.”

“How so?” Yelena asks.

Cyn turns towards her. “What’s your stake in all of this, dear?”

“If it’s any of your business, _honey_ , my stake is purely for the girl. I know what it is to suddenly learn that something you’ve known has been a lie. That same mother that had to run from Melis’s father, faked her own death to save me.”

Cyn says nothing. Several large shapes move over to them. All of them in pure white armor.

The armor of the Saxons. The white signifies the purity of their loyalty to the Empire.

“Get up, Eldar,” one says. “You and your kind shouldn’t be welcome here. He looks at Covenant. “Especially with offworlders.”

He makes a move to a holstered blaster. His buy’ce is split by a green bolt, as is the table. In a swift move, Yelena yanks a small handweapon from the back of her belt—the combination fusioncutter and vibroblade of her world and needles a beam into the throat of another. A switch of the weapon to her left hand and another Saxon minion collapses, clutching her throat, trying to stem the gouts of arterial blood.

Cyn Eldar looks at them with amusement as she draws a small vambrace-blade from under the unarmored armpit of the fourth. She lifts her boot and kicks the still-twitching corpse from the blade, onto the floor.

The enclave is silent. The entire action had taken no more than ten seconds.

“I guess I’ll lose my membership again,” she says ruefully. “What part of the ‘no-weapons unless armored’ policy did you two not get?”

“The whole thing,” Yelena says.

Bryne stands up, showing that he holds a custom WESTAR blaster. “I’m a heir of Clan Shysa,” he says in Mando’a. “Any sanction for this is on me and mine, not the daughter of Clan Eldar.”

He stares out at the silent crowd. “Anyone?” he asks.

“They drew first, Shysa,” someone says. “Go.”

“You certainly have a way with people,” Cyn says as they collect their weapons. “J’oh always loved that about you. Even when you pissed her off.”

He can tell that Yelena has a thousand questions after that statement.

 _Another time, love_ , he thinks.

* * *

Melis passes through the gates, making her way quickly through the crowds to the transport station. She looks around, ducking into a small locker room, opening her bag as she enters.

The young woman who exits the locker room, pocketing the small chip that could open one of the lockers, bears almost no resemblance to the young cadet who had entered. Her distinctive helmet as been replaced by a soft, colorful scarf, her drab uniform replaced by a brief top and flowing skirt. What can be seen of her dark mass of curls flows freely, not in the severely bound style that the helmet necessitated.

Yelena Dao smiles to herself as she starts to follow on the rooftops. She herself is clad in the armor of this world, a nondescript version borrowed from Cyn Eldar, that would allow her to move unimpeded in any circle on this world. She had eschewed the helmet, opting for just the hood of the bodysuit. She touches her rifle, now slung on her back for easy carry and access.

It doesn’t take a long time, including a brief ride on top of the transport by Yelena, for Melis to reach her destination.

Yelena smiles as she sees the young woman fall into the arms of the older man that Yelena had seen her with at the range. Tarranic Vheh’yaim, gently—more gently than a man of his size and what she’d heard of his disposition should be able to—takes her hand and leads her over to a small blanket. He opens the basket on the blanket and begins to bring out various food items and a four pack of the ubiquitous ale. Yelena shakes her head at the two week old memory of the taste of the stuff. _These damned Mandos drink that swill like it’s mother’s milk_ , she thinks. _Including my sister, apparently_ , as she watches them both tuck into the light picnic lunch.

Yelena takes a deep breath, then unslings her rifle. She rests it on the branch of her favorite tree, the aims it away from the pair. She twists the scope slightly, so that it is trained on Melis, and touches a small button. She makes sure that her earpiece is paired and listens.

“—finally managed to make sure I got this pass,” Melis says between bites.

“I’m glad that you did, dear,” Tarranic says. Yelena narrows her eyes at the soft expression.

“Me too,” she replies, touching his hand. “I’m glad that I met you. I’ve enjoyed our talks—plus some of your side lessons—lessons about being a Mando, that I haven’t gotten from my family.”

“The Saxons aren’t known for their adherence to tradition,” he says. He stops, his expression going soft again. “But enough about your family. I said I wouldn’t speak ill of them during our talk. Tell me about your ten-day,” he says.

“Not much to tell. Had to beat a much bigger cadet at hand-to-hand, to earn this pass.” She touches a bruise on her cheek. “Oh, and I met someone at a dinner at home. Someone who looks just like you, but much younger. He’s an ex-GAR trooper. Says his name is Tarre, but he goes by Drop.”

Yelena concentrates on the old man’s face. She can see the surprise covering those features.

“I feel just like I felt when I met you, Tarranic,” Melis continues, “that I’ve known you for a long time.”

Yelena watches as he purposefully moves the expression from his face. “I know, dear,” he says. He looks down, as if gathering himself. “Melis, dear, I haven’t been entirely truthful. I’ve known you since you were a baby.”

Yelena shifts her scope back to Melis. Melis’s face gives the look of one expecting a blow. Yelena punches her comm, linking it to the video and audio of her scope.

“I think he’s about to reveal something to her,” she says into the comm.

She breaks off as she hears a distinctive noise. The noise of loud smack against a tree near the pair. The sound is followed by a report.

Yelena shifts her view to the building adjacent. She sees the glint of light of a scope. A scope attached to a definite Mando weapon. A Verpine sniper rifle. Able to shoot small projectiles along a magnetic field.

Yelena instantly reviews her options. There are only two.

Concealment or protection.

As she opens fire, she sees an incredible scene. Tarranic Vheh’yaim’s massive body covers that of her sister, shielding her from any harm.

* * *

Dani watches the crowd in the tiny bit of greenspace, a rarity on Nar Shaddaa—at least on this level. She can feel the comforting twitch of Ahsoka’s rear lekku under the hood, against her back, as another section of scum is covered.

She takes a deep breath, enjoying the closeness of her sister-of-the-heart. The last few weeks, in spite of the seriousness of what they had to do, had been light and refreshing. Dani had never spent as long as this in Ahsoka’s company—the closest had been during the festival on her world, when they had faced death by blaster squad against a wall, but had ultimately been able to experience the light and joy of her world. These couple of weeks had been full of moments of laughter and conversation—the heart and the mind aspects of the Zeltron soul. She grins. The body’s comforts had been well represented, too.

Dani had to admit that she had enjoyed the company of Lassa Rhayme and her crew, as well. Even though they had made a secret truce, a truce based on mutual losses and grief, the continuance of the public feud and its affect on Ahsoka had been amusing, to say the least. Both Lassa and Dani had whispered their enjoyment of their friend’s attempts at the Interlocution to each other after the younger woman had finally collapsed in exhaustion from her efforts. When they were sure Ahsoka was asleep, they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, gentle touches and whispers marking their journey to the land of Nod.

Dani feels a slight buzzing in her neck as her earpiece comes on line. “On your front,” the disembodied voice says. She feels Ahsoka tense, then relax. Dani gently bumps the crown of her head against her much taller companion’s, receiving a bump in return.

A tall woman stands there, a smirk on her golden features. The expression belies the hard look in her dark eyes. Dani nods slightly, remembering a report from others who had encountered her. She hopes she is able to suppress the anger coursing through her body as she thinks of how close this woman had come to robbing her of her foster-sister. She channels the resonance towards more lighter emotions; she makes sure that she focuses it on the woman.

She feels the tiniest bit of lust reflected from the woman. She locks onto it, intensifying it. She sees the woman start to breathe a bit heavier, her breasts doing a bit of heaving under the sleeveless jerkin.

Dani manages to keep the grin off of her face as she hears a whisper in a high, clear voice in her ear—not from the transmitter, but live. “Ladies and gentlemen, Daaineran Faygan,” Ahsoka whispers, her own breaths coming a bit fast, even with the familiarity and the overspill.

She sees the woman grit her teeth, then shake her head. “Okay, sweet-cheeks,” Ming Lardai says, “you’re a bit more practiced than the other Zeltron I’ve recently encountered, but we’re not going to wind up naked together. Turn it down.”

 _Okay, that’s a first_ , Dani thinks. She only turns it down a half-notch, though.

“You got me here,” Lardai says. “What do you want? I’m a busy woman. I have a Hutt to strangle.”

Dani keeps the anger from her face, as well as the resonance. “I represent a certain consortium on my world,” she says evenly. “We have interest in keeping that Hutt’s windpipe working.”

“You may be too late. The tribunal is deliberating now.”

“That’s unfortunate. Geddan is key to an important business arrangement for my principals. It could anger them if he’s harmed, robbing us of this opportunity,” Dani replies in a much smoother tone than she feels.

“I’ve never been worried too much about pissing off Zeltrons. They’re only good for one thing.” Lardai’s expression grows even more harsh—harsh with a hint of lust. “Why don’t we get all of this over with and maybe we can go off somewhere and enjoy some softer negotiations,” she finishes. “I could go for seeing if you can use your tongue for something other than talking.”

Dani allows her smile to grow hard. “What makes you think that I represent my mother’s people? My interests are more, shall we say, _Dragon_ -like.”

 _Sorry, abeeyah_ , she thinks in the general direction of her father, _but I don’t think you’d mind._

“You’ve piqued my interest a bit, girl,” Lardai says after a moment. “The Dragon of Corellia isn’t one I’d like to trifle with.”

Dani feels Ahsoka’s hand on her arm from behind. She presses her head against the lek in reply. “Good that you recognize that. Maybe we can come to an agreement, one that doesn’t involve bluster and blasterfire,” she muses.

Lardai shakes her head as her comm dings. “It is too late for that.” She pulls out the comm, then smiles at the Aurabesh.

Dani feels the bile rise in her throat as her eyes fall on the scene above the device. A Hutt is suspended from a crossbar, suspended to his full length.

His tongue extends from his lips, unmoving. The result of being suspended by a cord around his throat. Dani feels her vision go red with anger; she can feel the flush coming to her skin as the flash of light presages the transition of her eyes to the black—the Modula. An indicator of strong emotion in her people.

Including murderous rage. She feels a cool hand touching her lower back, the palm spreading out on her skin, calming her. She fights the rage and manages to calm herself. Dani wonders if Shyla Merricope will grieve Geddan’s death—not just the loss of her contact with the underworld. She had described him as somehow different from the other Hutts—less avaricious.

“That’s unfortunate,” she manages to say, “you may have just declared war for Jabba on us. I don’t think you can afford the pain.”

“Maybe, little girl,” Lardai says. “Maybe we might want to be a part of whatever little agreement you were entering into with the corpse, here.” At that, she turns and walks away.

Dani motions to her left. Sorentin Rhayme and Gral Kruvure start to follow Lardai, at what might be a safe distance. Daani Torstan walks up to them both as Dani and Ahsoka rise.

Ahsoka’s face is still, but Dani can tell she is deep in thought.

“This changes things,” Dani says. “What?”

“Maybe. But I got a strong sense of deception from her.” She shakes her head, taking both Zeltrons in. “Let’s go. Maybe those two useless bruisers can find something.”

As they turn away, Ahsoka lifts her hand and touches Dani’s forehead; she gently massages the lines of worry that Dani knows have formed between her eyebrows.

* * *

Tarranic winces as Leeza Antol pulls on the bacta bandage to tighten it. He holds up his hand and looks down at the pad on the right side of his chest. He nods with satisfaction, then reaches over and touches the button on the bacta stimulation field.

He looks down at the bloody projectile lying in a basin. He picks it up, and smirks. _It’s true. You can shoot a kriffing stone from a Verpine_ , he thinks. He feels his heart sink as he remembered who had said that.

Someone who is dead to him.

He picks up the small beskar plate and examines the edge. There is a small chip in the tough metal, where the projectile had struck, glancing into his chest.

Leeza grins at him, then reaches down and kisses the opposite side of his chest, resting her head there. His eyes narrow at the unexpected tenderness.

His reverie is interrupted as Iris walks into the small hostel room. “The girl is safely back at her dormitory pod. An Imperial officer showed up to escort her back—she had an odd rank plaque on her uniform. I don’t think she was fully human.”

Tarranic nods absently, motioning for the service droid to clean up the mess of his recovery. “I think I know her. She and Melis were getting along well. She was even helping correct some of her blaster issues,” he says.

“Do you think she had anything to do with it?” Iris asks. “Say the word, and she’ll meet with an accident.”

Tarranic rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t sound right, coming from you, dear. You’re usually the voice of reason. No, I don’t think she had anything to do with it. If anything, she was overwatch. She had a long rifle at the range. Was pretty good with it—an old clone DC-15.”

“A good weapon,” says a new voice. A man in beskar’gam stands in the door. Iris goes for the back of her suit, but he holds up both hands. “Easy, Quickdraw,” he says, lifting the helmet. Tarranic notices that isn’t a traditional buy’ce, even though the suit is traditional. More like a clonetrooper helmet—a commando officer’s.

Tarranic hears an intake of breath from Leeza as the man’s face is exposed. Tarranic raises an eyebrow as his eye falls on the young man’s face.

He sees a young man, maybe in his early thirties. An abstract star of what look like blade scars, with slight burns, mark his forehead, underneath what has to be prematurely gray hair, cut short, but with still long enough to show some residual wave and curl. A blonde and reddish-brown bit of hair circles his mouth.

A mouth now quirked in a crooked grin—one that could be called maddening, if he had time to think about it. Tarranic wonders if he had met the young man before.

Something about him—especially the expression—is familiar. Tarranic moves down the suit of armor. The breastplate is a unique shade of green, dark with hints of black in it, trimmed in gold. A ribbon of purple silk circles the breastplate in a sash tied in a very unique way.

Tarranic grits his teeth as he remembers that one who is dead to him. The sash’s complicated knot indicates an honorific of only one clan.

Clan Skirata.

“How did you get in here?” Leeza asks. He sees her move towards his blaster carbine.

“Easy. I had an appointment, Colonel, darling,” the man replies, “or is it Trooper, darling?” He smiles that maddening smile again. “Blonde hair becomes you, Leeza,” he says softly. His eyes grow hard as they turn to Tarranic. “If you’re interested in that young girl, you might want to know that I witnessed your fuck-buddy here order another young woman’s throat to be slit, as easy as she’s sitting on your bed.”

Tarranic shoves Leeza down as she reaches his blaster. Iris draws her own weapon and points it at Leeza’s head. Leeza relaxes, holding her hand up. “You shouldn’t trust this Corellian mongrel, Tarranic, my dear,” she says. “He’s got a do-gooding streak a kilometer wide.”

Tarranic whirls on the newcomer. “Did you say ‘Corellian’? he spits out.

Leeza doesn’t answer. “Get out,” he says without turning. No one moves.

“Out,” he screams, turning his eye on Leeza. She very calmly smiles, then pulls her her jacket closed. The door shuts behind her.

Tarranic lets his breathing calm, then turns to Iris. “You too, love,” he says. “Make sure she stays out of mischief.” He smiles and adds, “Let that lesser copy of me in, as well. Fenn, too.”

Iris nods, then touches her lips to his cheek. The Corellian stands there impassively as the two are sent in. All three of them stand next to one another, looking at him intently.

He looks at the Null, first. “Good to know someone got my handsome face,” he says, glancing at Fenn Shysa. “Even though my son looks more like my beautiful wife with that blonde hair and fair skin.”

Neither of them say anything. He turns to the one in the middle, the shortest of them. “It’s all come together. Those green eyes, the Corellian colors of your beskar’gam. That damned crooked grin.” He looks down, seeing similar green eyes underneath his—eyes glazed with passion and love.

Eyes closed in death.

“So tell me, boy. What should keep me from turning you in as a jetti?”

“Probably the fact that they’d laugh in your face. I can’t throw as much as a farga nut at your head, now, much less a full meiloorun.

“Plus, I’m here to look out for that girl that you’re showing interest in. The one that was entrusted to your care.”

Tarranic Vheh’yaim sits down heavily at his grandson’s words.

“The one that you failed.”


	6. Born To Lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birth of it all, with death threatening.

The mother looks up as the waves of pain swell throughout her entire being. “One final push,” she hears from the medical droid; she is rewarded with a loud yelling. _A caterwauling, more like_ , streams into her mind, amidst the bright colors of the receding pain. She feels a strange sensation, from just inside her consciousness, pervade her lower body, calming her. She smiles at the familiar sensation, as her abeeyeh—the only true mother she had ever known, comes into her view. Her crimson face is streaked with tears—something that most people would never ever see from the hardened former pirate turned semi-legitimate businesswoman that was Naathanaan Beten’ii. Her purple eyes are laughing, just before they transition to the black. 

She reaches down and the mother feels the touch of her warm lips on hers. Naatha lifts up, then brings a cup of ice to her lip. She sucks gratefully on the chip. Wry Zeltron humor, from being exposed to her adoptive mother flits across her senses. _If you’d just stuck to sucking, you wouldn’t be in this mess_. She winces as her laughter bubbles up.

Naatha grins, then turns away, taking a tiny bundle from the droid. She places the bundle on the mother’s chest, opening her medical smock. “I don’t know if this is the right thing to do. We have a wet nurse for the journey. It may make it harder,” Naatha says, “but I know how goddamned stubborn you can be, my love.” A smile breaks over her face. “Meet your daughter, Melis. Melis, meet your mother, Ardalen.”

As the baby finds her nipple, Ardalen Nath feels the pang of separation. She’d already gone through this a year or so ago, but the baby had been older, and already eating solid food. Plus, Ardalen had been injured in that damned racing-speeder accident/assassination attempt, where everyone had thought her dead—even her husband’s family, who had taken the baby to safety.

A deception that had led her into the sphere of the grasping Alderaani nobleman on Corellia, who had taken her in. 

She looks down at the infant’s wrinkled face, memorizing it. _I will see you again, Melis_ , she thinks. _When I can be assured that you won’t be taken from me._

Her mother looks down at her again, her mobile face growing sad. Before the resonance affects her, Ardalen feels her world shift, the antiseptic room being replaced by another, different sterile enclosure. Her mother’s face morphs—

—into a blank green, reptilian face. The Falleen yanks Ardalen back to her feet. Her eyebrows rise as as she sees the struggle apparent on his face—a struggle that seems to emanate from the sparking box on the right side of his head. He drops his hand, his own mind winning out. “Back to work,” he says in a toneless, almost dead voice.

She had lost count of the days that she had been under the Falleen’s ‘protection’. Since that time, he had only communicated with her when giving her orders or ‘correction’. All the while, his eyes had never shown anything but blankness.

She’d decided that she’d had enough, even though he had rebuffed several probes by Pyke soldiers to regain possession of her. Several of these rebuffs had resulted in a dozen or so broken and bloody Pykes. As she had watched him fight, she realized that she was familiar with his style of fighting, from a long-ago familiarization class at the House, on Corellia. A style used by a world of warriors, with the artistry, as well as the blunt force of their unique armor. 

She curses as the memories of Corellia and the subsequent flight, even before she was healed from the birth of Melis, that had taken her to the Outer Rim, and then into the arms of the Separatists. An embrace she had regretted almost instantly, when she had witnessed the senseless execution of recalcitrant villagers by droid firing squad. 

She was in too deep by then, working for Lok Durd and Jenna Zan Arbor and their diabolical projects. Her status as a propulsion engineer had kept her from working on the most deviant of their projects, but she had felt her soul drained nonetheless. 

Until she had been able to contact her adoptive mother.

She looks down at her handiwork, at the latest experiment with the volatile coaxium. The lead engineer looks at her work and nods her approval. She looks at the Falleen. For an instant, his eyes are on the coaxium container. Her eyes lock with that of the lead engineer. Run, she thinks.

“Ardalen, no!” the engineer, whose name she hadn’t bothered to learn. She flips the vial up in the air, then strikes it with a spanner. The Falleen leaps for cover, as do the others in the room. 

She breaks for the door, seizing the protective clothing and mask that she would need to survive in the deeper mines. As she hits the door, a burning pain bursts over her nervous system. She slips down to her knees, screaming in pain.

She fights to crawl to the door, a vision of that infant in her eyes. Another slightly older child, the jewel of her Commencement flashing in her dark forehead, stares back at her, laughing, her multicolored eyes flashing through the spectrum of the father’s world, takes up her vision with the infant daughter of Dorith Panteer.

A man who had proven what she had meant to him, within weeks of her conception. A path to power on his birthworld, that required its monarchs to be female.

She feels the Falleen’s hand close on her neck, lifting her up from the ground. He twists her in his grasp, she stares at him. She happens to glance downward at the powerful green wrist holding her throat. As her vision starts to dim, her eyes lock on an Aurabesh tattoo on the inside of that wrist. 

_Jetto_ , it reads. The word is etched on his other wrist—or at least she thinks it’s the word—it is in a different language. 

One that she recognizes, but can’t translate. 

_Mando’a script_ , some part of her mind thinks.

The blackness increases in her vision. Her mind goes through the catalogue of loved ones, starting with the two children.

Ending with the visage of her adoptive mother, Naatha Beten’ii. She had added one more to her mind’s eye—the young Zeltron granddaughter of Naatha that she had met before her capture—Dani Faygan.

The blackness disappears as she feels the Falleen release her. 

Release her and then arc across the room. She turns and stares at a newcomer in the door. Her eyes widen as she sees a figure in a threadbare robe. The woman stares at her with ice blue eyes in a face that is pale, under graying reddish-blonde hair.

She drops her hands, her chest rising and falling with effort. An alarm starts to sound. Ardalen whirls on the engineer, whose hand is lifting from the alarm button she’d pushed. 

“Come on girl,” the older woman says. “I’m not getting any younger.”

She scoops up her protective gear as she follows the woman out into the corridor. She is barely able to keep up, as the oppressive atmosphere of the world begins to immediately take its toll on her. Ardalen had been protected in the sterile air of the labs and her quarters. 

“Put the breather on, girl,” her savior says. “Don’t worry about me. Been here awhile over the last few years. Place can’t do too much more to me.”

Ardalen complies as she follows her. She normally has an excellent sense of direction, but can’t keep up with the twists and turns of the warren of caves and tunnels. 

She wonders where she will go from here.

* * *

Leeza watches as Tarranic stares at Covenant. She can see his single eye suddenly soften. She wonders if a tear will form. 

The eye hardens as it is met by the hard green eyes of that once-foundling. Both men square off; she wonders what else lies between them. She’d been allowed back in after a few minutes’ time. None of the four men appear to be worse for wear. She immediately locks on the resemblance between Tarranic and the one that Bryne Covenant had referred to as ‘Drop’. She wonders if that might be something ISB would pay for, to offset her desertion—a Null-class clone still free and wild.

 _Well, most of them are_ , she thinks, remembering the report of Kal Skirata and his ‘sons’.

A young woman in crimson armor, who had accompanied the three men, comes back into the room. “Hate to break up this touching family reunion, but we’ve got some company coming.” 

Leeza looks at Iris. “Did you happen to bring anyone more than yourself? Somebody who might have beskar’gam, and oh, I don’t know, _some weapons_?”

Iris looks back at her with a look of someone looking at a bug to be squashed. In response, she reaches back and brings out a long-barreled pistol with a cylindrical body and what looks like a small blade. 

The blade extends into the short sword, known as a beskad, Leeza remembers.

“I think we’re good, sweetums,” Iris says, “if you can keep up, that is.”

Tarranic looks at the armored woman. “So you’ve been working for this whelp all along?” he asks quietly. 

The T-visor looks back at him. “I work for myself, you old bastard. But the man who told me to call you that has some affection for this Corellian and Shysa.” Leeza can feel the smirk in her voice, behind the mask. “I kinda fond of his ass as well, as well as other parts.”

For an instant, a smile lifts one side of Tarranic’s lips. “No accounting for taste, darlin’,” he replies. He grows serious. “I’ll sort out your loyalties later, girl. It may lead to your guts being spilled on the ground below you by a beskad, while you dangle from a ky’ram veshok.” 

The woman, who the Corellian had called ‘Cyn,’ gives no sign of running away in terror from the threat of a traditional form of execution—the ‘Tree of Death’—a post made from a particular genus of a native evergreen that still flourished under the Keldabe Agricultural Dome. 

Iris, however, does stare at him, the anger apparent on her face.

“Don’t think so,” say the three newcomers, as one. 

Tarranic stares at them, then takes a similar pistol handed to him by Iris. He loads a several small cylinders into where he had broken open the weapon. He closes the weapon and thumbs a small lever at the back all the way back. Leeza is suddenly the only one not armed.

Suddenly the door to the small room bursts open. Tarranic, who is turned away, triggers the pistol. A burst of light and the first one through the door explodes and disappears almost completely. He shifts the lever to the first setting and fires. A standard blue bolt from the barrel cuts into the throat of the next figure, clad in what appears to be mismatched beskar’gam.

“Some of them ain’t wearing beskar,” Fenn says, “it’s cheap plastoid or durasteel.”

Bryne fires from a large Corellian blaster, following the blast up with one from the Mando in his left hand. His eyes narrow. “The leader‘s looks like some version of Imp-style, but custom.”

“I think there may be more than we can take out,” Drop yells.

“You want to live forever, bud?” Tarranic asks, moving next to him.

“Not everyone seems to have nine lives, like you do, you old bastard,” Fenn says. 

“Such respect for your dear old buir, ad,” Tarranic replies. “You’ve been talking to Kal Skirata, too, I see.”

“I think you’ve earned the name,” Bryne says dryly. 

“They’re pushing forward!” Iris yells. “Can the chatter and start hitting something!”

“Everybody’s a critic,” Bryne replies.

“You wanna sample the ol’ honeypot, sport, you better make sure we get out of this alive,” Iris snarks at him with a brief grin.

“I don’t think you’re going to get anything wet, vod,” Drop says, his teeth clinched as he pops off aimed burst from an old clone DC-15s. “There’s too many of them.”

They stop firing for a moment. Leeza glances outside. Their attackers have suddenly turned their fire outwards.

They start falling to more bolts. Leeza’s heart drops as she sees the figures of her old unit, the Mudjumpers. The new major, Madine, his bearded face calm with a helmetless head, watches intently. 

“Oh, great. It’s the Imperials,” Bryne says dryly again. 

“They’re distracted by the scum and villainy,” Tarranic observes; “we better make ourselves scarce. They might shoot before asking questions.”

As they move away from the remnants of the firefight, Leeza sees a figure in white durasteel, cut similar to Mando armor, slip away.

* * *

A figure walks into a tiny room, located in a down-at-its-heels section of Sundari. To an onlooker, the figure would look like any mercenary that couldn’t quite muster the credits to purchase beskar for its armor. The slightly dirty white color signifies purity on this world.

The owner is anything but pure in her regard for anything but herself. 

Herself and one other. 

The woman in the armor pulls off her helmet, exposing her blue-gray eyes under a short mop of chestnut hair. Pem Bouva, commander of the infantry brigade assigned to the Star Destroyer _Resurgent_ , and acting Colonel of the entire legion, looks ruefully at the crater in the upper chest area of the Imperial-style cuirass. She throws the Mando-style buy’ce on the bed of the small guest hostel. 

A quick few moments and she is staring at her naked body in that same cracked, clouded mirror. She touches the corresponding wound just above her left breast, a slight wound that has already stopped oozing. If she’d been in the standard Imperial plastoid, she wouldn’t be looking at herself in the mirror, if the old legends of her birthworld were to be believed, she’d be staring down at her lifeless body, as she rose into the otherworld. 

Pem sends a silent prayer of thanks, not to the gods of Naboo, but to her wife and commanding officer, Phyllida Enolo, for her gift of the durasteel version of the Imperial armor.

Thoughts of her birthworld sends her gaze to the small symbol on a chain between her breasts. A symbol of those gods of Naboo—deities that she no longer believed in.

The sight of the charm brings her mind back to that world. A cascade of pain and grief, long suppressed, fights to overwhelm her memories. She sees her mother and father as they are dragged off by battledroids, as she and her younger sister scream and reach towards them. Other adults in the confinement camp fight to keep the two children from rushing towards their parents. Pem remembers one adult trying to place her hands over her eyes. At the last instant, she is able to wrest her face from the hand. 

Just in time to see her parents thrown back against the wall that they stood in front of—thrown back by the blaster bolts striking their chests, blasters in the hands of a half-dozen battledroids.

She allows herself to look away as the droid in charge clanks towards her parents’ bodies, lowering his blaster to their heads. 

Pem sees the faces of her parents in happier times, before they died as examples of what attempted escape or rebellion would look like to the citizens of Theed.

Even though her parents were harmless artists and had shown no inclination to escape. A fast forward and she sees her little sister, her left cheek pierced by an errant blaster shot, being borne away by a surging crowd as security volunteers and armed citizens drive their captives away. She remembers the damp smell of the Gungan soldier who had picked her up and carried her to a relief center. 

That memory is shoved away by the sight of the minor Alderaani noble who had carried her to her home, to be a part of her family. A family that included the chief law enforcement officer of that world—the Mishleh.

Her memories are interrupted by a chiming sound. She sees the code and smiles, not bothering to cover up. 

The face of the daughter of that noble and that cop, one that had grown into much more than a foster-sister, gazes at her with warm smile. Phyllida Enolo grins at Pem’s nudity. Pem straightens and returns the grin. 

Phyllida’s grin fades as she sees the wound. She nods as she is satisfied that by inspection that it isn’t serious. 

“I guess the durasteel held?” she asks. 

“Yes, dear,” Pem replies, “but beskar would’ve held better,” she adds with a cheeky grin.

Enolo rolls her eyes. “Yes, I know. You sure are high maintenance.”

“But you love me anyway,” Pem replies. She looks down. “I miss you, Phyll,” she whispers. 

Enolo’s smile grows softer. “Me too. So how did the operation go against the Unwanteds?”

Pem looks down. “It didn’t. We were about to overrun them, but some groundpounder interceded.”

The brown eyes of Captain Phyllida Enolo bores into her. “So you failed?” she asks. 

Pem takes a deep breath the stab of pain and fear somewhere in her heart. The fear of failure—of disappointing her love.

Of being abandoned. 

“I lost my entire force of thugs,” Pem says, keeping her voice from trembling. “I think that CO of the groundpounders should be taught to keep his nose out of business that doesn’t pertain to him.”

Phyllida shakes her head. “No. We need to be low key. This isn’t exactly sanctioned. Isard doesn’t want to be connected to this.”

“Well, Armand Isard’s ass isn’t on the line. We’re going against his own ISB Advisor. Two of them, in fact, if you count Delilah Sal.”

Phyllida is quiet. For an instant, Pem thinks she’s overstepped. 

“No. We can’t let it be known that we’re involved. Not just for the Minister of State Security’s sake. We’ll solve his issue with his recalcitrant asset. We’ll take care of Leeza Antol. I’m more concerned with the girl, Melis Saxon. I want to be able to stick my finger in Panteer’s eye as well.”

Pem nods. “I’ve got some forces in reserve. It might be time to involve Jabba as well.”

Enolo smiles. Pem is relieved to see that the smile has regained its customary warmth. “Perhaps. I think Jabba’s got his hands full with family matters.” Her eyes narrow. “As well as a Corellian infestation.”

Pem smiles. “I’ve got one of those, here. One with an ass that we both were appreciative of.”

Enolo laughs. “Well, in spite of our regard for certain parts of Major Covenant, don’t be afraid to end him if he gets in the way.”

“It might be time to activate Kozume. She’s here as Dorith’s agent,” Pem suggests

“Yes,” Phyllida says, “remind the good Ensign that she’s our tool, not Panteer’s.”

“I will,” Pem replies. 

Phyllida nods. “I can’t wait to have you back on the ship, my love,” she says. “Perhaps we’ll find a new Ensign to share. Or Jetto will be back from his part of this mission.”

As she disconnects her comm, Pem Bouva remembers a night that Enolo had spoken of. 

She turns and heads to the shower, memories of light replacing memories of her pain.

* * *

Bryne Covenant makes sure that the unfamiliar ISB officer’s helmet is seated properly on his head. _As properly as it can be_ , he thinks, ruefully. Crix Madine smirks at him. Bryne rolls his eyes. 

It had been a couple of days since the attack on the hostel. Tarranic Vheh’yaim had decided that he didn’t want any of the three of them around for a couple of days. 

It hadn’t stopped Iris Rook from greeting him from the bed in his apartment, her dark skin on full display in his bed. After she’d yanked the sheet down from her shoulders.

A message from Madine had been awaiting him when he finally checked his comm, after all of the activity. The Corellian Imperial had invited him on maneuvers. It would be as good of an excuse as any to get out of Sundari for a bit, as well as find out what Madine knew about the defenders of the small hostel room that he had intervened in.

He wasn’t sure if Iris, after she got her fill of his body, wouldn’t act like the female of the blurg species and devour him. Bryne sighs, shaking his head. _You really need to stop watching those horror holos, dumbass_ , he thinks.

He could, however, feel the sting of her nail-wounds on his back and shoulders. He hears, rather than feels, a capital Smirk in his mind along with the words of a familiar voice. _I tried to get you to watch the cartoons instead, Bait_ , the Ahsoka voice says. The voice grows even dryer. _Were you not entertained by your Mando takeout?_

He wisely decides not to reply, either to whatever the bond is, or his Ahsoka-sounding conscience. He shoves those thoughts away, as an insistent tapping can be heard in his brain. 

The source of the tapping becomes apparent as Madine brings his fist away from Bryne’s new bucket. “You in there, sport?” he asks. “I need your full attention, so that nobody gets hurt because you were thinking about ‘Mando takeout’.”

Bryne sheepishly realizes that he had spoken the last aloud. The smirk on the bearded face tells him that Madine knows that he wasn’t talking about food. He starts as a tall, thin figure comes up to him, dressed in a cadet’s field uniform and helmet, the visor up. 

He stares at the open, trusting features—the features of the young woman he’d come here to persuade to come with them, so that Ardalen Nath, once Ahsoka and the others were able to free her, would have no more worries in the world. 

Bryne was also hoping to stick his finger in the eye of Dorith Panteer, who had harmed another of his sisters-of-the-heart, as well as been a thorn in the side of a royal family on Alderaan. A family that had taken he and his hunt-sister in. 

“This is Cadet Saxon, TL-6787,” Madine says, “Cadet, this is Major Covenant, seconded to ISB. He’s old and might be kind of an idiot when it comes to this, but I’ve heard he’ll watch your back.” Madine grins. “I’ve heard from Advisor Sal that he might be halfway useful.”

 _Oh, yeah, bud? When did you hear that? When she was turning you inside out_? he thinks.

He pays more attention at Madine’s look. “This is a standard simulation. A pair of troopers, for lack of a better word, since you’re both new here and kind of useless, are to advance and cover each other, firing at the simulator droids as you go. You’re competing against your time, but both of you have to arrive and tag the sensor box before you can pass the simulation.”

As Madine speaks, Bryne locks on Melis’s intense face, listening and drinking in every word. He’d only seen holos of Ardalen, hadn’t met her yet, but even with just the holos, he can see the familiarity in the young woman’s lighter colored, thinner face. The mass of hair, just peeking out below, framing her face under the even more ridiculous helmet, is a give away, as is the tiny bit of laughter in her flashing eyes, hidden behind the serious concentration.

“Any questions? Good. Get moving,” Madine says. 

Bryne pulls the issue carbine from around his back, checking it. Melis— _Cadet Saxon_ , he thinks to himself—copies his movement. 

“You ready, Cadet?” he asks. 

“Ready, Major,” she replies, pressing the switch to bring her visor down. He hears the humor in her voice, even as the modulator kicks in. “Try and keep up.”

“Brat,” he whispers. The green ‘go’ light flashes. He jinks to the left, she to the right, as if they hadn’t just met each other. 

A target pops up, he blasts it dead center. He hears blaster fire to his right—three droids had popped up on her side, but were no problem for her. 

He grins to himself as he thinks of what Yelena had said. _One correction to her stance and that’s all that it took_. He could hear the pride in Yelena’s Core accent. Pride in a newfound, if still concealed sister.

Bryne shakes his head as a bolt passes hear the flare of his idiotic helmet. “Stay frosty, old man,” his partner says in his ear. “Crossing!” she finishes. 

He moves to his right, lifting the muzzle as he pulls behind her. As he does, a shadow passes over him, firing several bursts from its leading edges. The heat of the blast passes by his cheek; he’s nearly knocked over by the explosion.

“Something’s wrong,” he yells. “It’s at full power!”

The disk arcs backward, flipping towards them both. With only instinct, he shoves Melis to the ground, covering her with his body. The drone begins to walk blasts towards them. Melis’s visor pops up, her face only centimeters from his. He can see only a hint of fear on her features. 

The drone comes closer, then explodes in a burst of pressure and light. He tightens his grip as he feels a sharp pain in his left shoulder, something hot and metal in the skin and through the light armor. The pressure hammers at his ears, compressing his consciousness. He sees Melis’s face contract in concern. 

His last thought is mundane. _Dammit, now the left shoulder’s going to ache in the cold, just like the right._

The overpressure from the turbolaser cannon that had destroyed the drone squeezes the light from his mind.

* * *

The faux Mandalorian watches as the two old men move cautiously into the room. One—his responsibility sits and draws his blaster, setting it on the table, the muzzle towards him. The other—the obviously larger, stronger, and healthier of the two, draws his custom blaster and places it in the same fashion. 

The two men are both clad in beskar’gam—his principal, Jak Saxon, in spotless white—the white of purity. The other, Tarranic Vheh’yaim, wears gray, its surface dotted with dents, but still clean and impressive. The gray of mourning, unbroken by any other color.

The faux Mandalorian, who is known by both sets of his masters as Lieutenant Mal Adede of the Imperial Navy, watches as both men reach up as one and pull their buckets off. Mal stares at the two who remain behind Saxon, his sons, Gar and Tiber. They keep their helmets on.

Mal focuses on Vhey’yaim, as he had seen Jak’s rheumy blue eyes nearly every day for the last month. The single remaining dark eye focuses on Jak, but gives a practiced glance at the two sons and the one accompanying gunsel—Mal. 

Mal stares at the woman in pure purple armor standing behind Vheh’yaim—the purple of luck. She is calm and unlike Jak, alone as Tarranic’s security. 

She appears very capable, with another custom blaster, similar to her alor’s, a WESTAR 34, and a large beskad across her back. He can tell, even with the t-visor, that she is locked on him, as the first target if needed.

“Been a long time, Tarranic,” Jak says. 

“Yeah. Not long enough, Jak,” Tarranic replies. There is a low murmur from behind Jak from his sons. 

He looks back and silences them with a sharp glance. 

“Why the hostility, Vheh’yaim?” Jak asks, dispensing with the niceties.

“You know why, Saxon. We’ve never addressed it, because you seemed to be too powerful for me. But you took something from me. I was entrusted with Melis’s care, not you. You also cost me a valuable friend and warrior, Jetto Wasablim.”

Saxon shakes his head. “Maybe the fact that you and your lackeys couldn’t keep one infant girl, should tell you that it wasn’t meant to be.”

“You ambushed Skirata and Jetto,” Tarranic replies evenly. “You knew their route, and they were outnumbered.”

Jak smiles, then starts a coughing fit—one that lasts for several minutes and produces gouts of blood in his handkerchief. Tarranic looks on him dispassionately, with little sympathy. 

“So why are you bringing this up, now?” Gar asks through his bucket. “Are you feeling brave, Vhey’yaim?”

Tarranic smiles in reply. It isn’t friendly or warm. “Maybe, boy. But at least the best part of me didn’t dribble down my old man’s leg.” 

Gar’s hand twitches towards his carbine, but the woman in purple taps her fingers on her blaster. Mal moves his hand towards the Imperial officer’s sidearm. 

Both Tarranic and Jak make no move towards their weapons. Jak looks hard at Gar again, his eyes staring at the weapon.

Everyone relaxes, at least for now. 

“So what do you want, Vheh’yaim?” Jak asks. 

“I want you to stop attacking people who are looking into her safety. They’re under my protection. I want it to stop.”

“I haven’t approved any attacks,” Jak says, his brows drawing together.

Mal smiles behind his helmet. _Not exactly untrue_ , he thinks. _Others are doing it for you, old man._

“Then I want her transferred to my custody,” Tarranic says. 

“That’s not going to happen, d’kuht,” Gar says. “To her, we’re family.”

Mal rolls his eyes. 

Tarranic stands up. He looks down at Jak, who continues to sit, his breathing heavy. “You might want to curb your whelps, Jak. Plus, I’m not sure how much the girl looks at you as family. She sees through your greed and lust for power.”

At that he turns and walks away, his minion following him, without turning. 

Jak looks up at Gar. “Did you have anything to do with these attacks?”

Gar remains silent. “Buir—“ Tiber starts. 

“Silence,” Jak says quietly. He stands and looks at his sons. “You’d better be careful. The Imps are looking at one of you as the Viceroy. Don’t ruin it now,” he says. Jak staggers. “We’ve been the power on Mandalore since the Empire took the place of the Republic,” he manages. “We will rule.”

Both sons grab him, then lift his bucket and his pistol. “We’ll take him home,” Tiber says to Mal. “Have some of your people follow them and watch them. Don’t engage yet.”

Mal nods, saying nothing. 

He waits until all of the Saxons have left the meeting area, then activates his comm. The holo forms in the shape of a young blonde woman. The holo is not washed out enough to dim the power of her gaze; she stares out from a pair of aquamarine eyes, with a slightly demented cast. 

“Is it coming to pass?” Noar Zan Arbor, Deputy Director of Advanced Weapons Research for Imperial Security asks. 

“It is, Director,” he replies. “There is enough distrust—some of it sown by Panteer’s pet Imperial, some of it by me. We might be able to the get the girl out of here.” 

She nods, an even more demented smile coming over her features. “Good. I hope to be able to manipulate Panteer through his daughter. She means a great deal to her, even though he’s never met her. He thinks she might be the key to his revenge against the Organas.”

Mal nods, then takes a deep breath. “What is it, Lieutenant?” she asks. 

“There’s a possibility that the dead are coming back to haunt us.”

Zan Arbor’s eyes narrow. “Antol?”

He nods. “I’ve been tracking her, ever since you had me save her on Scarif after Commander Lardai stabbed her. You were right. Wulff Yularen was interested. I’m told that the Minister for Imperial Security is tracking information from her. Or was before her cover identity deserted from Imperial service.”

“So you’re telling me that she might be playing her own game?”

“Yes. I think she might have attached herself to Vheh’yaim.”

She nods. “Alright. See what you can find out. In the meantime, I’ll have a conversation with the Minister and Yularen. I may send you something by courier. Something that might take care of her once and for all.”

As the comm fades, Mal wonders if he can navigate all of the different sides to this project. The door opens. 

Cantos Lardai steps in, two Deathtroopers behind her. “Tell me why I shouldn’t slaughter you, bud,” she says.

He smiles behind the Mando bucket. “I know too much. It might be harder to do, with the things and the people I know.”

She falls silent. Mal stares back at her, both at an impasse.


	7. Guess Things Happen That Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Families in the poodoo and out of it.

The fog begins to lift. In a rare instance of Force lucidity, Bryne Covenant senses another consciousness in the room with him. Not a fellow Force sensitive, but something familiar. He breathes out, hoping that he can push the fuzzy pain from his head. He keeps his eyes closed, but tries to lift up from where he lays.

Instant mistake, as a sharp pain in his shoulder brings him more fully alert. He curses under his breath as his eyes fall on the woman sitting in the chair by his bed. 

His eyes scan Leeza Antol’s body for any sort of weaponry—other than the body itself. He lifts his head and fumbles for a second pillow for his head. 

_Fumble being the operative word_. With a smirk, she stands and walks over, taking the pillow, then placing her hand in his hair at the back of his head. She stands there looking at him for several seconds. 

“You contemplating smothering me with the pillow?” he asks acerbically. 

She starts, breaking from a reverie, then rolls her eyes. She places the pillow behind his head, as he maneuvers upward, fighting the pain. Her hand moves down to his cheek. She reaches down and kisses him on his lips, lingering just for a half-second, before placing another in the scars of his forehead. Leeza gently sits on the edge of the bed, testing to see if it hurts him. 

“No more than breathing and existing does, right now,” he replies to her raised eyebrow. She nods and eases herself down. 

They stare at one another. Leeza starts to says something, but closes her mouth. 

“Meglann,” he says. 

She looks down, then away. Her eyes lock on his, sees him looking at the door. She turns and stares at the figure standing there. 

Meglann Florlin stands framed in the door, her eyes staring at Leeza Antol. He sees Leeza’s eyes take in the very large blaster on her hip, Meglann’s fingers drumming on the wooden grip. Meglann lifts her fingers from the weapon and moves them to clasp the gunbelt’s buckle. 

Bryne grins. “Hey, ‘glann,” he says, “what brings you here?”

“I brought some backup and some company,” she replies. “but, looks like you aren’t too lonely in your recovery.”

“You know me, babe,” he says. “I’m charming and well thought of.”

She snorts, then focuses on Leeza. For an instant, Bryne is transported back to an overlook of a beach on a beautiful tropical world. The young woman standing tall and confident, now, but lying on a beach towel asleep in the past, her body clad in a borrowed bathing suit. Two women, similarly clad—just three women enjoying a day on the beach. 

One of them the woman seated on his bed. The other, the current Imperial Advisor on this world. He remembers listening as Leeza Antol instructs Cantos Lardai to cut Meglann’s throat and to leave the young woman on the beach for the scavengers. All to deny another Imperial who sought Meglann as a pawn. 

“Bryne told me what you did,” Meglann says. “You also destroyed my life on Alderaan, or at least was a part of it. My friend died in that damned fire.” 

Bryne is amazed at her poise, at the even tone. Even more amazed as she walks over to the bed and sidles past Leeza without fear. Bryne closes her eyes at the touch of Meglann’s soft lips on his. He sees Leeza look down again.

“That was another person. One who’s dead now,” she says. 

Meglann stares at her. “You don’t look so dead to me,” she replies, again in that even tone. “Yet.”

Leeza rises in one smooth motion. Bryne grins as Meglann’s hand falls to the blaster, then relaxes as Leeza starts to open her shirt. 

Meglann and Bryne stare at the jagged scar on her chest, at the glowing plastoid just under the skin of the right side of her chest. Meglann reaches out and touches the scar. 

“It turns out that nearly dying changes your perspective a bit,” Leeza says. She places her hand over Meglann’s, stroking gently. “I ordered your death. But the one that didn’t kill you, didn’t do so out of any altruism.” Bryne sees the tears in her eyes forming. “She had her own agenda. One that resulted in this, from her own hand. After I married her and took her name.”

 _Oh, please_ , Bryne thinks, _you did that because your family name was getting too much notoriety._

“Spare me the tears, Colonel,” Meglann says, echoing Bryne’s thoughts. She lifts her hand from Leeza’s chest, “I’m not going to kill you. But you might want to re-think whatever it is you’re going to do here on Mandalore.” She grins—an expression that has absolutely no warmth or laughter. “This lunkhead means a lot to me and some other fierce and powerful women, any one of whom would cut you long, deep, and continuous, if you caused him or his any harm.” She lifts her index finger. “Plus, I know how to enter a commcode. As the lunkhead explained it to me, the one that was going to cut my throat and stabbed you, is here on Mandalore. She might be interested in a reunion.” Meglann’s expression hardens more than he would’ve thought possible. “To finish the job.”

Leeza stares at her, her eyes narrowing. Without a word, she stands, pulling her shirt closed. She turns and exits.

Meglann lets out a long breath. 

“Wow,” Bryne says. “I’m shaking in my boots.” 

She punches him lightly on the opposite arm from the one attached to his injured shoulder. “You should be. I think you were about to do something stupid, bud,” she says. 

“What?” he asks. 

She walks over and makes sure that the apartment is secured, then comes back over, kicking her boots off as she unbuckles the gunbelt. “I think you were about to get ‘succor’ from ol’ Leeza.” The double meaning of that word isn’t lost on Bryne. “She seemed quite willing to show you her girls. She’d’ve been ministering to the afflicted in no time.”

“Come to think about it,” he replies, moving his hand up to the fastening of her shirt, “I could use some comfort.”

Meglann slaps his hand away, then starts to unbutton the shirt herself. Another minute and it joins her trousers on the floor, leaving her clad in her underpants and socks—socks that incongruously are dotted with pink tookas. 

She climbs gingerly into bed and lays herself next to him, under the covers. He runs his fingers through the familiar bronze curls, one-handedly removing the ties of the tight queue. She lays her head in the crook of his uninjured arm as soon as he shakes out her curls. He can see her eyes beginning to grow heavy. 

“Maybe I’ll let your backup take care of the ministering.” She reaches down under the covers and gives him a squeeze. “He seems fond of this part as well.”

As they both fall asleep, Bryne once again marvels at her growth. At her resilience in bouncing back from the pain of her near past. He knows that most of it comes from within. He also suspects that another of their loves might be able to take some credit for this growth. Even though she’d never claim it.

His last thought is on Ahsoka—that example and mentor. 

He thinks Meglann’s might be as well.

* * *

Ahsoka tunes out the arguing from the four beings in the room with her. Her mind wrestles with the problem of a now-dead Hutt benefactor. One that would have been able to get them passage to Kessel—a world run by the prickly Pyke remnants, but with some support from the other Syndicates. She mentally runs down a list of those syndicates searching for any that might be willing to help. 

For the right price, of course.

Her mind only locks on two—one particular organ of Black Sun and the Hutts. Crimson Dawn and the others would be non-starters. Idly, she wonders if she maybe should look up Jabba and remind him that she had at one time carried his spawn across two worlds, fighting to bring the little slimeball back to his father.

She shakes her head, then checks her comm. The message light blinks; she turns away from the others. Meglann Florlin’s face and part of her body flashes above the comm. Ahsoka smirks at the exposed bare skin of her shoulders and chest. 

“Hey, Fulcrum,” she says, “made contact with your idiot. He’s dented, but making progress. Fit’s here with me and ready to help him out.” Meglann’s eyes track downward. “He misses you. So do I.” She shakes her head. “I’ll be heading to your location to pick up Daani and the two assholes. We’ll figure out what’s next, if Nola and Shyla can get anything out of Xizor.” She grins. “Might get that bubble-bath out of the way when I go to pick them up.” The holocomm fades. 

Ahsoka turns to the Dani and the others. She grins as her eyes fall on Danalaan and the older Zeltron as they glare at Sorentin Rhayme and Gral Kruvure. _Getting confusing_ , she idly thinks, _between Dani and Daani._

She looks over at Lassa, who seems to be pointedly ignoring everyone. She is intent on her datapad; Ahsoka wonders if she’s playing sabacc or some hologame. Her eyebrows rise as she sees a gleam come into the pirate’s bronze eyes over the reading glasses that she uses more and more these days. 

Ahsoka can’t tell if the use of the spectacles is an affectation or not. Just like the dress frock coat of some pleasure yacht line, with its fancy gold lace, she has taken to wearing. _Over a dress shirt opened to her navel, of course._

She brings her hands together in a loud clap. Daani jumps, then grins sheepishly. “Okay, boys and girls,” Ahsoka says, “we’ve got a strangled Hutt, and no way to get passage to Kessel, unless we suddenly take up spice-smuggling or the like. Any bright ideas?”

“Maybe,” Sorentin Rhayme says, looking at his daughter—who especially seems to be taking extra effort to ignore him, “but it would be nice if you’d stop calling us ‘boys.’ I got socks older than you.”

Ahsoka notices that Lassa doesn’t ignore that—the bronze windows roll briefly up into her skull, mirroring Ahsoka’s. “I know. I’ve smelled them,” Ahsoka replies easily. 

“Maybe if you’d stop acting like a priapic adolescent, like you did when you were my bodyguard, she wouldn’t call you that,” says a new voice. Ahsoka sees Lassa stand up and put aside her datapad, walking over to the direction of the newcomer. 

Ahsoka turns, trying to fight the urge to rush over and leap into her old friend’s arms. Riyo Chuchi, Senator of Pantora and wife to Jana Roshti, a layabout Togruta mercenary, holds her arms open for that ‘wife’. Ahsoka falls into the arms of the smaller woman, pulling her tight into the embrace.

Without the leaping.

“So I’m assuming that my pirate has been moonlighting a bit?” Ahsoka asks as she releases Riyo with a kiss. 

“Yes, dear,” Riyo replies, running her hand over Ahsoka’s wing marking. She pulls Ahsoka tighter. “I swear, you seem to get taller every time I see you.”

“Maybe you’re getting shorter, Senator,” Ahsoka says with no small amount of snark.

“Yeah. I get worn down by idiots that risk their asses in cockamamie schemes,” Riyo replies with her own snark. Her eyes fall on the elder Rhayme and his partner in crime. “Even old men who should know better.” Her lips quirk upwards from her hard look—briefly. “Good to know that my prediction hasn’t come true, General,” she says. 

“I’m sure there’s a gibbet with his name on it somewhere,” Gral Kruvure says. Riyo gives him a much more brilliant smile than she does her former bodyguard. 

“Hello, Gral. How’s married life? Although running with him as well prepared you for it,” she says, pointing at Rhayme.

“She seems to think so,” Gral replies, “we’re taking one of our breaks. Or, more likely, she’s taking a break from him.”

“I’m standing right here,” Sorentin interjects. He looks at Riyo, his expression unreadable. 

_No,_ Ahsoka thinks, _it’s readable_. She sees raw pride in his eyes. Ahsoka sees that Lassa notices as well.

“So what are you doing here, Riyo?” Ahsoka asks. “This isn’t exactly the safest of environments for cute little Senators.”

“One, I may be cute, but little is relative. Two, it’s slightly less dangerous than the Trade Federation Battleship that you dragged me onto back in the day,” Riyo replies. 

“You and me recall that whole thing differently. I’m the one that had to scrub ‘freshers in the Temple and the Senate building as punishment for you getting me into that mess.”

“Builds character,” Sorentin says. She shoots him a look. 

“Lassa asked me to get involved. She knew that I had contacts in Jabba’s court.”

Ahsoka turns to Lassa, who is cleaning her reading glasses. She shrugs. “What can I say? People like me,” she replies. 

No one replies to that. 

“I don’t think this whole thing is as it appears,” Riyo says. “My source says that there’s no indication that Jabba is involved in any sanction of another Hutt right now. He’s not even on Tatooine, right now.”

Riyo’s words silence them, at least for the moment.

“Who the hell strangled Geddan, then? Ming Lardai doesn’t exactly improvise.”

No one has an answer. Riyo looks at Dani, as if seeing her for the first time. 

As if anyone could ever miss Daaineran Faygan. 

“Hey, sweetie,” Riyo says, walking over and taking her hands in her own.

“You wanna go to Tatooine to find out?”

* * *

Nola lifts the shot of foul-smelling ceremonial liquor to her lips, steeling herself against it tasting as it smelled. _Glad it’s just a shot,_ she thinks.

Her expectations are subverted as she downs it. She sees Shyla smirking at her, then giving her a soft look. 

She manages to return it, even though she isn’t sure of what brought the tenderness on. They had argued about what they were going to do from the time that they had left the bar until they had begun to disrobe for this ritual. Kal Skirata had finally given them both a short curse word in his birth-language, a word that neither one of them were sure of the translation, but its tone had left no doubt as to its intent. 

Nola looks over at Kal, clad as they are only in a long towel draped over his waist and shoulders. Even though he’d said he might not be here, at some point in the intervening days and weeks, he’d been invited as well. He returns her look, keeping his eyes firmly locked on hers, rather than anywhere else, that might be more than slightly exposed. She grins back at him, then nods. She manages to refrain from giving what he is so studiously ignoring a slight shake. 

Mostly.

She takes a deep breath, letting the moist heat seep into her lungs, as well as through her pores. She particularly feels the warmth on the now-healed wound on her shoulder and the misshapen finger—one that still aches continuously.

The door opens. A large Falleen warrior looks in, scans all three of them, then withdraws. 

Xizor Sizhran, Vigo of Black Sun and a Prince of the Second Rank of Falleen walks in, clad in his own mourning cloth. His blues eyes survey them, lingering on Skirata. He says nothing as he walks over and sits on the mourner’s bench. He lifts his own shot and downs it, then takes the bottle and starts to pour the remains over the heated stones. 

Nola steels herself for the stench as the steam billows. She is surprised when the smell reaches her nostrils. Her senses warm even more at the sweet, spicy tang that the heat produces. She feels herself relax.

Xizor’s eyes stay steady on her. After a moment, he smiles slightly. “Hello, your Grace. It’s good to see you again.” His eyes move from hers, staring at what looks to be a small urn inset into the wall. He closes his eyes briefly, then turns back to Shyla. “Thank you both for your patience. This is a difficult time. The loss of my prime grandmother, as well as the disappearance of my uncle is trying my patience.” He turns to Kal, who returns his stare without flinching. “Plus the fact that my code of hospitality, as well as regard for you both, requires me to let vermin into my house.”

Skirata’s eyes narrow. “I’m equally disgusted at being here, Prince,” he says. “Your treatment of Jetto Wasablim would normally require me to finish what I started the last time we met. But these ladies require my forbearance.”

He stares pointedly at a scar on Xizor’s chest. Nola realizes that both she and Shyla are holding their breaths. “Jetto made his own nest, when he deserted me and cast his lot in with your Mandalorians. But, I think your ladies need us to put the past in abeyance, at least for now.” He turns back to Nola. “At least you didn’t bring a Zeltron,” he says dryly.

Nola ignores the anger she feels in her heart. She feels Shyla’s hand on her thigh. 

Xizor shakes his head, then smiles again. “However, I _am_ missing the delightful and charming Ensign Florlin, and young Fit. Their presence could’ve brightened my day. Especially young Fit.”

Nola smirks, making sure in her mind to tell Meglann of his regard for Fit. “They both wished to be here, but duty called them elsewhere.” She winces at the pomposity of the words, as they leave her mouth.

Xizor doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m a bit confused,” he says, “I don’t remember authorizing anything on Kessel.”

Nola feels a stab of worry at his words. “I think that Malaky was willing to work with us,” she says carefully. “The Dragon can be a powerful ally.”

He nods. “Yes, I know. It’s why I let Malaky have his head. He does get results and bring profits.” His eyes grow thoughtful. “He seems to work well with Bel Iblis.”

 _Bud, you have no idea_ , Nola thinks. She takes a deep breath and says, “I think we can work together. We have interest in making sure that Malaky is well.”

He nods. “He has an assistant—a human woman named Chraina Loren. There’s something strange about her, but she’s works well for him. She’s been off of the grid for a while. He also has a new pilot, one that I think might’ve worked for Xizor Transport Systems.”

“I know him,” Nola says. She looks at Shyla, who nods quickly. “We’ll be in touch.”

Xizor touches her hand, looking briefly at the malformed finger. He massages the other fingers gently in his large hands. “Be careful. In spite of my regard for my uncle, I don’t want anything to jeopardize my relationship with the Pykes. They’re prickly as hell.”

She and Shyla both rise. Kal follows suit. He and Xizor stare at one another. Without a word, he stalks out. 

Shyla’s eyes are troubled as they both move to where they had left their clothes.

* * *

Bryne watches as Delilah pours the tea carefully into the three cups—one for her and one for their guest, as well as an extra. He grins behind his caf cup as said guest, watches her just as carefully. 

Or at least parts of her. 

He does notice that Tiber Saxon has more of a calculating look of lust on his face, rather than the pure animal version that his brother Gar had. Or at least how Delilah and Drop had described it. Bryne wonders if they should’ve brought Drop in on these discussions, to see if his huge glowering presence would give any sort of leverage to them. He shakes his head. 

Drop is currently with Talle, trying to figure out who else is who in this whole thing. As well as allowing Tarranic a bit of ‘family’ bonding with the two. 

He tunes in, looking at the other two examples of ‘muscle’, one sitting on the couch next to Tiber, the other leaning against the wall near the balcony door, her arms crossed, but the large blaster still on her hip. 

Meglann blows him a kiss, sipping her own caf. He grins as he sees Delilah give Meglann a thoughtful look. 

His mind travels back to the early morning. He had awakened, realizing that Meglann was still lying against him, her face against his chest. He had realized that another set of arms had circled Meglann from behind.

The owner of those arms had smiled back at him with dark eyes, her mass of strawberry blonde hair spilling over Meglann’s shoulders and breasts. 

An instant before the Imperial Advisor of Corellia had kissed Meglann awake. Meglann had only started for a moment, then had pulled Delilah on top of her and Bryne.

He notices that Tiber seems to be paying particular attention to Fitanzuju Ataro, dressed in a shirt that leaves his muscled arms bare. Fit blows Bryne a quick kiss as well, when Tiber is distracted by Delilah. 

Fit soon does some distracting of his own, as he reaches over and strokes Tiber’s forearm.

 _No, of course Fit didn’t join us this morning_ , Bryne thinks. _He made a particular impression on the Advisor._

He catches Fit’s eye and mouths a two-word phrase. _Be careful._

Bryne again marvels at the growth of one who had never set out to save the universe—one who had come from a different background from Meglann, but the intersection of their paths, as indentured servants, had led both of them to dedicate themselves to risking their futures for others. 

_Not if I can help it, bud,_ he thinks. _You’ll have a future, if I have anything to say about it._ He tunes back in to Delilah’s conversation. 

“—you can be subject to Imperial sanction, Tiber, if you had anything to do with the attack on one of my officers,” she says. 

Tiber exhales, then places his hand over Fit’s. “As I’ve said, Advisor, I had nothing to do with the attack. I, unlike my brother, care not a fig for what the Vheh’yaim and their ilk are doing. I’m comfortable with the fact that the Imperial Advisor of our world—not another’s— supports us in our bid for the Viceroyalty of Mandalore,” he says smoothly. “Clan Saxon also did the Empire’s work for them, overthrowing that Republic lackey Bo-Katan Kryze, after the transition. We deserve the Viceroyalty, officially, not just tacitly.”

Delilah smiles wolfishly, an expression that she no longer uses on Bryne, except when they’re connected to each other’s bodies, “Perhaps you’re comfortable with mediocrity, Saxon,” she says, “but I’m an expert at making lives living hells. Especially for families.” She avoids Bryne’s gaze. 

_The past is the past_ , Bryne thinks to himself. He narrows his gaze. _For now, Delilah_.

“I can attest to her tenacity,” Bryne says to Tiber. _Time for the good cop_ , “But I can speak to other sensibilities, with something other than threats.”

“You have my interest, your Eminence,” Tiber says. 

“I have some trade concessions with Corellia that I can offer to your family, if you could figure out how to keep my family, as well as ensuring that young Melis is not a pawn in your family’s ambitions.”

“I wasn’t aware that she was,” Tiber observes.

Bryne takes a deep breath, glancing at Delilah’s expression. “We have information that outside forces seem to be at play. Some from worlds other than Mandalore.”

Tiber smiles. “It’s good that you’ve resorted to bribery, Covenant,” he says. There is no respectful tone in his use of Bryne’s title. “It makes it easier.”

Bryne looks down at his comm, which has vibrated. He lifts it and shows it to Tiber. “Well, I can bring the stick as well, Tiber,” he says. 

Tiber’s eyes widen at the data on the screen. “Good to know, Covenant,” he says. “I’ll let those ‘outside influences’ know what you hold.” His smile disappears. “May not be the ones that you and your pet Naboo think.” He reaches over and gives Fit a kiss, then rises without another word. 

Delilah looks at his comm. “I didn’t know that you had access to CEC’s ledgers anymore. Those debts by the Saxons to CEC are old.”

Bryne purses his lips. “Neither did I. I guess a certain Dragon still has his claws into many different little pots of iniquity and corruption.” He draws a deep breath. “At least watching them and using them to his advantage—for his world and his family.

Meglann walks over to them. “Who the hell is involved in this whole thing?” she asks. 

Bryne grins. “I guess that Draq’ feels like he’s a step behind Naatha in the galactic meddling business, after the whole thing with Ardalen and Project Xerus.”

Meglann rolls her eyes. “You know, I don’t think galaxy-moving egos are a good thing.”

“Out of the mouths of Ensigns,” Delilah says.

* * *

Dani takes a deep breath as the dry air washes over her. She stares out at the twin suns from the balcony of Jabba’s palace. In all of the collection of Outer Rim shitholes she’d visited, she’d never been to Tatooine before. In the Clone War, Bryne’s—then known as the Jedi Taliesin Croft—undercover mission on Lassa’s ship had started here, in the spaceport of Mos Eisley. Dani had joined later, on yet another Outer Rim paradise. 

She stares at a small animal, maybe about two meters long on the flatland just outside the palace. So focused on the womp rat, she doesn’t see a smaller animal moving closer to the statue-like—

One pounce and one gulp is all that it takes and she doesn’t see the smaller animal again; she only hears a satisfied belch. Dani shakes her head. _I hope that ain’t a metaphor for this meeting_ , she thinks. 

Just after their meeting with Riyo, she’d received a message from her unknown source, saying that Jabba had returned from where ever it was that he’d been and was willing to see the representative of the Corporate Sector Authority. 

Hence the fact that Dani is now sweating on a desert planet, in spite of the revealing business attire that she wears. _No, glistening_ , she thinks. _A girl never sweats._

The door behind her opens. “Fortuna says that Jabba will see us now,” Riyo says. Dani smiles at the figure beside her. A pair of blue eyes are just visible through a slit-like aperture on a tall helmet. A helmet that covers all but the tips of her lekku. The rest of Riyo’s wife is covered in various bits and bobs of armor and clothing—a mix of revealing and protective. Dani allows the familiar emotional signature to wash over her resonance. She nods at Ahsoka. Through the signature, she can feel ‘Jana’s’ reluctance at being back in the Hutt’s palace, and the memories of her last time being here.

Ahsoka had once told her and the other Links, in a lazy afternoon on the shore of a lake on a lush green world, of her first mission as a Jedi padawan. There had been humor, but also genuine fear overlaying the telling of the story. Not just the fear of being executed by Jabba, even after they’d brought his brat back to them, mostly safe. The more prevalent fear had been the fear of failing her master and being sent back to the Temple. 

They had all felt Ahsoka’s grief—even through the telling of the story. The intense pain at the loss of her master and her master’s master, Obi-Wan Kenobi. After the others lay asleep, Dani had tried to comfort her, but Ahsoka wouldn’t speak anymore of that pain. 

She wouldn’t even acknowledge it. Dani had seen Bryne’s eyes locked on Ahsoka, when he was supposedly asleep with the others. 

She had taken his lead and hadn’t pushed, instead, she’d distracted her huntress in the way that her people knew best. 

She’d loved.

Dani comes back to herself as they move into the audience chamber, just in time to see Jabba the Hutt snatch a small animal and place its screaming form in his gigantic mouth. The Kowalkian monkey-lizard screams with laughter, most probably at Riyo’s expression. Without a word, Ahsoka walks over to the small open jar and with one swift movement, grabs a smaller version of the animal. She ignores the Gamorrean guards moving to intercept her, as she pulls the bottom of her concealing helmet open. 

There is a gasp from some of the audience, including Riyo, as Ahsoka pulls the struggling creature into her own mouth. 

She can see Riyo wince as Ahsoka finishes her meal—and her demonstration. _She’s probably wondering about the last time she kissed her ‘wife’._

Dani smiles with a secret that Riyo doesn’t know yet. Ahsoka would probably be brushing her teeth for days after the demonstration.

The thousands of years of her people being the apex predator on her world, tempered by Jedi Temple etiquette. Dani feels her heart twist as she remembers the same dichotomy from another of her loves. 

The chamber is silent, as even the guards stare at Ahsoka. Jabba has fixed his ocherous, rheumy eyes on the food-thief. 

The tension breaks as Ahsoka emits the same noise from her mouth that Jabba did, in somewhat lesser volume. 

The belch is still impressive though. A belch punctuated by Jabba’s booming laughter. The room visibly relaxes. 

Dani reaches over and whispers in the helmet’s audio receptors. “Glad it was from the attic instead of the basement.”

She hears just a ghost of a reply. “That’s being held in reserve.” 

Riyo Chuchi rolls her eyes, adding to the whispered conversation, “Please spare us. I’m beginning to wonder what other surprises my wife holds for me.”

Jabba starts to speak. The battered protocol droid’s higher pitched voice can be heard over the rumble.

“So, mercenary. You’ve impressed me. I seem to have been giving tidings that one of my servants is moving behind my back. Would you like a job?”

Dani feels all three of their eyes widen. “Depends,” Ahsoka says. “Where’ve you been hearing about your minion?”

Two figures step out from behind the dais. Dani’s eyes fall on the first, shorter figure, as both lift their hoods. She recognizes the tall young woman with brown hair and a puckered scar on her left cheek. 

Storae’. First among Handmaidens of the current Queen of Naboo, Kylantha. 

The other—

“I seem to always have to bail my daughter out of some scheme she’s managed to get herself into.”

Dani stares into the piercing blue eyes set in the craggy face of a very tall human known for his reptilian tendencies. Draq’ Bel Iblis grins at her and drops one eye in a wink. 

_Oh, him_ , she thinks.


	8. Orange Blossom Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragon Family Maneuvers

Draq’ stares at Jabba. For an instant, Ahsoka wonders if he’s going to breathe fire, roasting the slug into a pile of slimy ash. She rolls her eyes at the thought. _You’ve really gotta stop listening to his press releases_ , she thinks. As if he can hear her, he turns his piercing gaze on her. She sees one of the eyes drop again, before he turns back to the Hutt.

“Mighty Jabba, we’ve known each other a long time, have we not?” Draq’ observes. 

The translator droid steps up. “We have. I’ve been meaning to kill you this entire time. I may get my chance today, Dragon.”

Draq’ smiles slightly. “May be harder than you think. Probably why you haven’t done it all these years,” he responds. 

There is a low murmuring from the various scumbags in the crowd. Both Dani and Ahsoka move their hands ever so closer to various weapons, both concealed and open. Ahsoka catches the eye of a couple of dancers. Three to be exact. 

All of varying skill. Surprisingly, the younger Zeltron woman seems to have the least amount of skill, at dancing, at least. She sees Dani catching the eye of the Handmaiden standing next to Draq’.

Storae’ remains expressionless, keeping her face and body still while listening to Bel Iblis.

Ahsoka takes that moment to reflect on the revelation that Draq’ seems to be coming out of his ‘retirement.’ That fact and the seeming alliance with Naboo’s unofficial intelligence service gives her more pause as she tries to figure out who is who. 

A part of her wonders if Draq’ is trying to outdo their newfound ally, Naatha Beten’ii in the universe-moving business. She hears a familiar drawl in her mind. _Never put it past the old man, Runt. He can’t resist engaging in a pissing contest. Thing is, Naatha’s been at it maybe even longer than him._

She pushes her hunt-brother’s voice from her head, concentrating on the older example of Corellian snark, piss, and vinegar. She still feels a great warmth as she watches and listens. She glances at Dani out of the corner of her eye. She swears that there is a great deal of dust in the old audience chamber as she sees the love and pride in the Dragonspawn’s eyes. 

She comes back to the current example of the Dragon’s skill and reach. “So what are you doing here, Dragon?” Jabba asks. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to try to make a dancer out of your larva. Although she might do more credit than the other Zeltron who is currently trying to prove that she has rhythm.” Ahsoka smirks at Danalaan’s thunderous look from the platform. She sends the young woman a warm smile of what she hopes is encouragement. 

“I’d pay serious credits to see you try that. Even if she wasn’t my daughter and I would firebomb the shit out of this palace, she’s more than able to hold her own. So why don’t we skip the ass-wagging and get on with business?” Draq’ says evenly. 

“I think that there is a Rodian gang that might agree with you,” Jabba’s translator droid says. Ahsoka narrows her eyes at the almost rueful quality of the original Huttese.

“So I think that my daughter told your Council lackeys that we were working on something with Geddan the Hutt, when they decided to string him up. I’m very disappointed, Jabba,” Draq’ says. 

The resulting incredulous explosion almost needs no translation from the Huttese. “What?!” Jabba bellows. He gives a creditable imitation of sputtering. Ahsoka, Riyo, and Dani involuntarily take a step back from the deluge of slobber and slime. 

“I gave no such authorization. We had our disagreements—even fights—but Geddan was an effective earner. He was always prompt in his payments.”

Dani raises her eyebrow. “That’s not what your chief thug, Lardai told him, according to our reports. She and your Council minister accused him counterfeiting his dues.”

Jabba is about to bellow more, when he suddenly stops. 

“The Corporate Sector Authority, of which I have oversight, is also displeased with this. Geddan was working with several of our bureaus and contractors. You may lose some business for this,” Riyo says confidently. Ahsoka raises her eyebrow markings under the mask.

Jabba’s bulging eyes become more thunderous. He turns to the Naboo. “Does the Queen of the Naboo have anything to add?” he asks. 

Storae’ adds to the fire. “No. But Shaizan Financial might have, if you risk some of our backing because of your inability to keep your house in order. 

Without another word, Jabba’s dais starts to retreat. He studiously ignores them as it does. Bib Fortuna, the dessicated Twi’lek majordomo hisses at them in Huttese. “Get out. All of you. The audience is at an end.”

Ahsoka turns to Dani. “I can see where you got your diplomatic skills from. Both of the examples were so helpful and effective.” Her senses reel as she shoves the others to the deck. A blaster bolt passes over them; she can feel the heat between her montrals. She looks up and sees Ming Lardai standing in the door, her blaster smoking. 

“Somebody’s been badmouthing me to my employer. I’m not taking kindly to that,” she says calmly. An instant before ducking down from a fusillade of return fire. 

A fusillade coming from a certain Pantoran senator and a Naboo Handmaiden. Dani, Ahsoka, Draq’, and the other three stand transfixed by the sight.

“What?” Riyo snarls, “did you think it was all tea parties and votes?”

Jabba’s own guardforce has their own looks of dumbfoundedness. They’re not sure who they’re supposed to be shooting at, so they open fire on everyone. 

Dani, Ahsoka, and Draq’ open fire on the guards, as Storae’ and Riyo concentrate on the fire from Lardai and two others. All three appear to be deciding that they might better quit while ahead. 

That is to say, alive.

The two minions are engaged by two very large dancers, who have appropriated Gammorean axes and have soon taken down both minions.

Ming Lardai finds herself wearing a young Zeltron on her back, a knife swinging. She manages to throw Daani off and slam her into a wall, but not before incurring several extra holes from the small knife that Daani had stabbed her with in the arm.

“Hey Dragon,” Ahsoka says, “I think we’ve worn out our welcome. Let’s say we regroup at the ships and see if Jabba calms down enough to talk.”

Draq’ doesn’t hesitate, but nods tiredly. 

Ahsoka feels Riyo move up close to her. “Hey, wife,” Riyo says, “whattaya say we find an empty cabin and see what happens when we’re actually in the same room together, let alone the same sector.”

Ahsoka shakes her head as she continues to fire at the Hutt minions. “I guess you do owe me a shower,” she replies. 

Riyo’s response is short, but pointed.

* * *

Shyla watches as Nola approaches the dais in Xizor’s official audience chamber. She narrows her eyes at the confidence in the young woman—wondering if the confidence is misplaced, or maybe even a front to hide Nola’s fears for her loved ones. 

_Maybe a little of both_ , she thinks. She concentrates on the substance, rather than the ritual. She does note that she sees something in Xizor’s eyes besides avarice and lust when he looks at Nola. Something softer, an emotion she wouldn’t think that you would find in a Falleen prince. 

_Pride?_

“I’ve looked into what you’ve both told me,” Xizor says, motioning for Shyla to stand next to Nola. “I think that the Underlord may be moving against me, for the death of his sister in my employ.”

Shyla looks at Nola, willing her not to mention how that sister died. 

“Yeah, Prince,” Nola says, as Shyla closes her eyes, “should we have a conversation about how his sister died? She was trying to kidnap the Elector-Presumptive of my world.” In spite of her teeth now gritting at Nola’s words, Shyla does feel the pride in Nola’s possessiveness for another world that has taken her in.

She elbows Nola in the ribs, but the damage may be done.

“Yes, I guess that we can. That attempt wasn’t sanctioned by me. Tera was acting on the orders of her brother. You can lay that at Zitan Moj’s door as well, if you like.”

 _Convenient_ , Shyla thinks. Nola wisely doesn’t contradict Xizor’s words. According to intelligence from Malaky, Xizor’s uncle and Draq’ Bel Iblis’s older brother, Xizor might have been more involved in that threat than he would admit to them. She focuses her attention back on Xizor, keeping the thoughts of his past machinations in the back of her mind. 

_He is, after all, at the heart of it, a criminal scumbag, she thinks. Just like Geddan._

This thought doesn’t stop her from mourning Geddan. She had enjoyed her interactions with the Hutt, both in the present and during the Clone Wars. He’d made no secret that he had been committed to his criminality, but there had been something different in his makeup. Something almost, _cultured._

Or at least polished. She shakes her head, shoving the unexpected grief back into its own small compartment, along with the thoughts of Xizor’s treachery. 

“So what?” Nola asks, “are you going to declare war on Zitan? On the rest of Black Sun?”

Xizor gives a smile that can only be described as wolfish. “No. I can’t. Even though I have passed through one phase of mourning for my grandmother,” at this, he gives Shyla a hooded look, “and begun the process of living again, I’m still not able to engage in any, shall we say, warlike pursuits. My hands are tied.”

Nola glances over at Shyla, who nods. “But Zitan’s aren’t,” she says. “He can move on you without sanction.”

Xizor shakes his head. “Not exactly. There’d be sanction, if he moved against a family in mourning, but I’m pretty sure as Underlord of Black Sun, he’s not too worried about family restrictions.”

Shyla nods, taking in the complicated relationships between occupations as criminal scumbags, family obligations, and religious observances that made up the worlds of Falleen who were a part of Black Sun. _Come to think of it, there aren’t too many Falleen who aren’t mixed up in Black Sun, in one way or another._

She starts with realization as her mind focuses on what Xizor is asking, in his own circuitous way. 

Nola appears to have reached the same conclusion. “So let me get this straight. You’re wanting the Corellians to do your dirty work for you. To move against Zitan Moj.”

“You might think that, but I of course couldn’t possibly comment. I’m merely giving you options. As I understand it, getting to Kessel was one reason that you were dealing with Geddan. Something about a family member?”

Shyla hopes she is able to keep the fury off of her face. Xizor holds his hands up at her look, as well as Nola’s, who is even less able to hide her anger. “No, Malaky didn’t tell me. I know that Naatha Beten’ii has been inquiring. I think we can work to our mutual advantage.”

“So you want us to intervene and take out Zitan. What do we get?”

“Safe passage under an anonymous ID to Kessel. You forget, I have a family member who is missing, apparently connected with something on Kessel.”

Nola speaks for both of them. “We’ll be in touch, Prince.” They both turn and exit.

They wait until they are at the Draq’stone and safely aboard before speaking. Nola pulls out a comm. The craggy visage of the ship’s namesake stares at them.

“What?” he barks, not waiting for the niceties. “I got your text. I’m not sure it’s in the best interests of all parties to accept his offer. It’d be worth it to get our family back, but not good for Corellia.”

“You got any better ideas, Dragon?” Nola asks. 

“As a matter of fact, I think I do. We’ve got an angle with whoever is playing silly buggers with Jabba. If Fulcrum can get out of the shower with the good Senator of the Sovereign World of Pantora long enough, we might have a certain percentage of a plan.” He looks at Nola, matching both women’s smirks, before growing serious. 

Nola narrows her eyes at him. Shyla holds her breath. 

“I need you to contact someone, No-no,” he says quietly. “Someone who might be able to help keep Ming Lardai off balance.” He smiles. “Someone who kept you alive and out of jail, sweetie.”

Shyla watches as Nola closes her eyes, as if remembering something.

Or someone.

* * *

Draq’ Bel Iblis knocks on the hatch. He smiles as it opens. His eyes fall on the two women seated on the couch, sipping caf. Both of them are clad in short robes; Riyo’s hair is still damp. 

“So we can’t figure out who the hell is running this whole thing. We thought it was Jabba, but I’m not sure. Malaky sent us word before he disappeared that Lardai was the one in charge of Ardalen.”

Ahsoka nods. “I know. She’s always been Jabba’s creature, at least since the end of the Clone War,” she replies. “It doesn’t seem like that now.”

“So who has their hand on her leash?” Riyo asks. 

Draq’ is thoughtful. “Are we sure that it was Geddan that strangled on the rack?” he finally asks. 

Riyo looks at Ahsoka, who closes her eyes. “That’s a good question, Dragon,” Riyo says. “The holo replay I saw was kind of fuzzy.”

Ahsoka’s eyes snap open. The powerful blue windows focus on Riyo, then turn to Draq’. “So do you think Geddan is orchestrating this whole thing?”

“Wouldn’t put it past him,” Draq’ replies easily. “He always didn’t act like other Hutts; he never seemed willing to get his hands dirty.”

“So what’s our next move?” Riyo asks. 

“I think we work on the Xizor angle,” Draq’ replies. “Just commed with Nola and Shyla. Xizor thinks that a rival Black Sun leader might be involved.”

Riyo narrows her eyes, then shakes her head. “I’m not convinced of this, Draq’. My sources in the Authority say that Geddan has no love for any of the Falleen. He barely tolerates Malaky.” Both of them look at Ahsoka, who remains quiet, her eyes distant. “What is it, dear?” Riyo asks, reaching out to take Ahsoka’s hand in hers.

“Something. I don’t know. I’m feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time.” 

“A Force sensitive?” Draq’ asks skeptically. 

“Maybe a bit, but that’s not the main thing. Something else,” she says, her voice trailing off.

“Something from the beginning of the Clone War. I’m not exactly getting the idea that it’s some mastermind, either.”

“What do you mean?” Riyo asks. Draq’ notices that she starts to move her thumb over the back of the powerful hand she holds.

Ahsoka shakes her head. “I can’t put my finger on it,” she replies. She looks at Riyo intently. “Do you think your sources in the wannabe Empire can give us more insight?”

Riyo grins. “Maybe. But you’ve pissed him off so much, that I have to make sure that there’s no suggestion of your involvement.”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes. “Odumin,” she says tersely.

Draq’ laughs. “It’s okay. He doesn’t know her name. He thinks she’s just a slipshod Corellian contractor. 

Ahsoka stares at both of them as they laugh. She rolls her eyes. “I’m surrounded by people who think they’re funnier than they actually are,” she says dryly.

Riyo reaches over and bites her on the wrist. “I just need to tell him that my layabout wife needs some info,” she says. 

Draq’ reaches over and touches Ahsoka on the cheek, his eyes growing tender. “Y’all get some sleep.” He looks down his nose at both of them. “And I mean sleep. We’ll go ahead and rendezvous with the Draq’stone and the rest of the comedians at Ord Mantell. I’ll look into figuring out who ‘s behind all of it.

* * *

Ahsoka watches the hatch that Draq’ Bel Iblis has just walked through. Riyo can see the troubled look on her face. She moves over and places her head against Ahsoka’s chest. She listens to her ‘wife’s’ rapid heartbeat, the skin above the closure of the robe cool on her ear. 

“I’ve missed you, Ahsoka,” Riyo says. “I’ve missed my friend, not just my fake wife.” 

Ahsoka giggles, the sound and vibration joyful against Riyo’s skin. “I’ve missed you too Riyo. I keep hearing about some of the things that you’ve got your fingers in. I wish you wouldn’t take so many risks.”

Riyo snorts. “You’re one to talk,” she replies. 

Ahsoka shakes her head. “Oh no, babe. It’s my job. I’m the one on the wall.”

“I’m sure that Bryne and the others might dispute that you’re the only one on that wall.”

Ahsoka opens her mouth, then closes it. Riyo pushes forward. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since the whole Links thing came about. I’m glad that you’ve got them, even though I don’t understand the whole mythology thing.”

Riyo watches as Ahsoka looks down, then grins ruefully. “I’m not sure any of us do.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s a lot of things. It’s an association—one that watches out for all of us—each of us.” She grins. “It’s one that’s not just about the Covenant, or the Fulcrum. It’s about the other three, and Lassa, just as importantly.” She closes her eyes. “Maybe even about the Untrusted Other,” Ahsoka finishes. 

“I’m glad that you have them, Ahsoka,” Riyo says. She tries to keep her voice even. She looks down.

Riyo can feel Ahsoka’s eyes on her. She reaches over and lifts Riyo’s chin, locking on her with those blue eyes. She kisses Riyo’s neck. “It’s about us staying in the light, but none of us are exclusive. Even Bryne and I.” Riyo places her arms around Ahsoka and squeezes her even tighter. “We know what we mean to one another. We’ll always have that. Both of us and the others.”

“I’m sure Teon will be glad to hear that about your Covenant,” Riyo replies with a smirk spreading over her face. Their laughter rises together, as they both reflect on Riyo’s chief of staff, one who Bryne has shared a few moments with. Riyo watches as Ahsoka grows serious again. 

“It’s about a promise,” Ahsoka says, gathering herself. “A promise to each other, to ourselves, and to the galaxy.

“That we’ll come home to each other. That we _will_ bear witness to the light being restored.”

Riyo feels her heart twist as those words reach her ears. Ahsoka shoves her upward and off of the couch. She moves her hands into the top of Riyo’s robe, then widens the opening over the blue skin. Riyo feels the robe come off her skin, then draws a sharp breath at the cool skin on her breasts.

“Come on, Senator,” Ahsoka says, pulling her own robe off and pulling Riyo into her arms. Riyo gasps at the contact of their skin, “let’s disobey Draq’. Then we’ll get some sleep”

Later, as they catch their breath, both of their comms sound. Riyo slumps, her head resting on Ahsoka’s belly. Ahsoka runs her fingers through the tousled lavender hair. After another moment, Riyo rises and goes into the ‘fresher. 

Ahsoka does take the time to watch the Senator’s ass retreat into the other room. She reaches over to the nightstand; she scrolls through a list on her comm. She selects a particular code.

“Hey, Solstice,” she says, “time to grab your socks. That job I had you on?” She hears an affirmative, but ignores the snark that accompanies it. “I need to know if the subject’s dealing with someone else.”

She clicks off, then lies back on the bed.

The fight continues.

* * *

Bryne watches as the multiple holocomm images come into view. All of them grow fuzzy as the encryption locks in, then solidifies. 

He locks his eyes on Ahsoka, who smiles at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Meglann give him a soft look. Nola and Dani do as well, from a much greater distance.

Draq’ rolls his eyes. “If we’re finished with the teary-eyed greetings, could we get on with an update?” He grins at the five upraised middle fingers on the holocomm. 

Riyo and Lassa join in from the couch across from the Dragon, next to Dani and Ahsoka, making it a universal gesture. 

Bryne grins at him. He sees the warm expression in the old man’s eyes. He knows that it’s mirrored in own.

He takes a deep breath as they watch him, all listening intently. Idly, he wonders what porn channel is covering this conversation. 

“ _Asses Over Aldera_ ,” the engineer of this comm system replies, without prompting. Draq’ stares balefully at Phygus Baldrick, who watches with a young Pantoran woman sitting next to him. “Volume 36. Ano picked this one out.”

Bryne sees Riyo look at her slicer with raised eyebrows. Ano stares back at her almost defiantly, as if daring her to say something.

“What’s up Bryne?” Draq’ asks. 

“Melis is safe,” he replies. “We’re working on a way to get her away from the Saxons. There’s also the issue of her being an Imperial cadet.”

“Any idea who might be backing the Saxons? It can’t be Panteer, he didn’t even know where Melis was,” Ahsoka muses.

“I think it could be any Imperial with some knowledge that Dory likes his seed,” Bryne replies. They all see Nola look away, anger apparent on her face. 

“I think that Bryne can stay there. Meg, I think you’re going to have to get back here. We may need all of the pilots we can get, if we’re able to get clearance for Kessel,” Ahsoka says.

“What are the odds?” Bryne asks. 

“I got somebody working on that,” Ahsoka replies. “I got a hunch.” She looks away.

Bryne reaches out, then drops his hand sheepishly, realizing that he can’t touch her. Meglann reaches over and takes his hand. No one says anything.

Until the Dragon speaks. In a surprisingly soft tone. “I think anyone here would take one of your hunches over anybody’s solid information.”

After a moment, Ahsoka nods. “Give me a little bit. My source should be making contact with someone connected to Jabba. I’ll know something in a couple of days. Might get some leverage.”

Shyla speaks up from the _Draq’stone_ for the first time. “If yours doesn’t pan out, we may have an in with Black Sun to get us there. Or maybe we can use both. Xizor’s good will may only extend to us on the _‘stone_.” She looks at Nola, who looks back, her dark eyes unreadable. “I don’t think we want to be beholden to Xizor for much. I do hope we can find out what happened to Malaky.”

They all turn to Draq’, who ignores them. Bryne looks at Dani. She nods to him. He turns back to Draq’. “Uncle, we know what Malaky means to you. We all know.”

Draq’ nods. “I know. But we need to get Ardalen. Naatha and I have had our disagreements, but she means a lot to me. Malaky knew what he was getting into. Ardalen is our priority.”

“So do we have even a small percentage of a plan?” Phygus asks sardonically.

“Oh, hadn’t you heard bud?” Ahoska asks, “We figured you and your big brain could come up with one by pulling it out of your ass.”

They all hear her comm ding, as expected. The Phygus Baldrick Defense Brigade speaks. 

Or at least texts.

Ahsoka’s lekku chevrons color, visible even in the washed out monochrome of the holocomm.

“Get on with it, Phygus,” Draq’ growls. The ‘Dragon’ look is in full force.

“I got nothing right now. But if we don’t get a way there, soon, it could be harder.”

“What do you mean, Phygus?” Dani asks. 

“Not me, love. Ano found this.”

Ano takes a deep breath; they can see her looking at her comm. Finally she opens her mouth.

Bryne idly wonders if everyone here has actually heard her speak. 

“We could be looking at a long traverse to even get to where we can do a Kessel run. The baby pilot has been working with me on what’s going on.”

Meglann’s thunderous look makes all of them turn away and grin at Ano’s nickname for her. “It’s called the Dantu effect,” she says. “There’s a collection of stars aligning around the Maw, centering on the Dantu system, affecting the whole area with even more gravitational anomalies. It may take us about a month to even get set up for a jump.”

“We don’t have that kind of time,” Ahsoka says. “We need to find a solution.”

Meglann nods. “I know. Boge, Murta, and Thyla are working on something. I’ll be there soon.”

Bryne turns to Tamsin, who has just walked in. She looks at the schematic that Ano had called up. “The Dantu effect,” she says. 

“You know anything about it?”

“Not really,” Tamsin replies. “But I know someone who does. Someone who’s actually made a Kessel run during the effect.”

“Good. Can you get them to help?” Ahsoka asks.

Tamsin rolls her eyes. “Maybe. But it’ll cost you, Dragon.” Her eyes narrow. “My contacting-my-asshole-ex rate.”

Draq’ snorts. “Okay, twit. I won’t have to pay your rate. Unlike you, I still have good relations with Bail Organa. I’ll contact him and get Chardri Tage to help us.”

Ahsoka curses at that name. She recovers quickly. “Okay. Start working on a solution. One that might shave some time off the trip. We’ll get Tamsin’s main squeeze involved. Maybe there’ll be a joyous reunion. They say time heals all wounds.”

“Yeah,” Tamsin replies. “Just don’t show your mug, Fulcrum. You might cause some trauma.”

“That’s what happens when he goes to sleep on the job,” Ahsoka replies, examining her nails. “Right after you did, as I recall. When your heads connected with my batons.”

“As fascinating as this is,” Draq’ says, “we need to get moving. We’ve all got our things we have to do.”

“What exactly is yours, Draq’?” Nola asks. 

Before he can respond, Ahsoka speaks up. “Could I speak to Bryne for a bit?” she asks. 

Bryne dares Phygus to say anything. The smirk speaks volumes. As one, they say their goodbyes. 

Meglann gets up. She reaches down and kisses Bryne on the temple. She blows Ahsoka a kiss. Ahsoka reaches up as if snatching the kiss and puts it on her cheek. Meglann takes Tamsin’s hand and pulls her out of the apartment.

“How are you, ie’ar?” she asks. 

Bryne feels his eyes tickle at the Togruti diminutive. A suffix, when spoken by itself, indicates the love of one comfortable with the other. 

“I’m okay. Gramps is every bit as charming as I figured he would be.”

“I wish I could be there with you when you go through this,” she says, her voice warm. 

He drinks in the tone and the words. “Just hearing that is enough, my hunt-sister,” he replies. He sees the expression in your face. “You okay, Runt?”

“Yeah. Just something seems to be at the edge of my consciousness. Of my senses. Not a Force sense or anything. Just something that has an echo of the familiar.”

He remains silent. She looks up at him, a look of raw emotion replacing the mystery of her feelings. She knows what she must do. 

He watches as she closes her eyes. He does the same, even though her Force sense is all that he can detect. 

Bryne just exists for her. He focuses on the blue-orange-white light in his head, smiling as he feels the warmth from her. The intensity of her focus on him nearly overwhelms him. He realizes that the comm has deactivated; they’re only connected by their minds and whatever the hell this bond could be.

Bryne sees her walking out in sunlight on a crystalline world. He feels a slight slap at the back of his head as she looks down at herself, clad in her early hunting outfit with its bare midriff and skirt over leggings. He realizes that he is smirking; he changes the look in his mind to one of raw pride at her accomplishment. Padawan at barely fourteen to the Chosen One—the Hero without Fear. Arguably the greatest Jedi of the Clone Wars. He reaches out in his mind to surround her with that pride as he feels the grief welling up. 

Grief marked by anger and shame; punctuated by the loss of trust in her by others. He too can feel the Jedi Temple receding as she walks down the steps, her master’s sadness and anger bubbling over him. 

He shoves his own grief into a small box—the one marked _Shaak Ti_ , as the cataclysm happens around them both. Bryne/Ahsoka both shove the grief away as an unaccountable warmth comes over them both. He/she sees the other from both perspectives as other feelings come to the fore. Both of them realize that they are looking up at her, then down at him as she moves down on him, their bodies connected for the first time. 

One night on a pirate ship on Garel. Their feelings of loneliness and then their love for one another growing until it releases in one fell swoop. Both of them look over at the naked Pantoran pirate watching them, her own emotions swelling. Other sensations move over them. 

The night disappears, returning to that vision of her first mission. A powerful stench overwhelms them both, then settles into familiarity. He feels a weight on their shoulders, the straps of a backpack digging in slightly. He hears a _meep_ sounding mournfully from the backpack as the being’s fever spikes.

They both start as they realize that they are in a small room. An older version of the larva on her back staring back at them from a platform. 

Realization hits Ahsoka as the bond begins to sever and her consciousness starts to shrink from him. He feels her sadness as it does, supplanted by the feeling of a puzzle being completed. He sees her pick up the comm again; he hears the conversation.

“Solstice, I was somehow right. Dig deeper,” she says in the fading link. 

_Bait, I gotta go. Somehow Stinky is connected to this whole thing._

His mind forms around Stinky’s true name. 

Rotta the Hutt. Jabba the Hutt’s son.


	9. Ring of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jetpacks and extortion in the morning and the evening.

The young woman watches as the Hutt swallows the small animal whole. She manages to keep the grimace from her face. Her new job was tenuous enough; she had no desire to suddenly explore a new and exciting career as a dancer in a Hutt court. She looks over at the Mandalorian, clad in scuffed armor; she can almost feel Fenn Shysa’s eyeroll. She shakes her head, wondering if it had been the smartest move to bring her mentor from Mandalore when another of Fulcrum’s people was involved in some caper that was connected to this. 

Face—or Solstice, as she was known to Fulcrum—grins behind her own mask—a version of a Mandalorian buy’ce that the man standing across from her had commissioned for her, one that allowed some protection for her lekku. 

She remembers the day that he had given it to her, commissioned from a armorer he had known, a young woman only a little bit older than Face herself. 

Face had only known looks of encouragement and patience, mixed in with snark from Fenn but as she had first donned the armor nearly six years ago, she had detected something different. A powerful sense of pride. Fenn had told her once that he had two daughters, daughters from a university assignation that he’d immediately regretted—especially once he’d found out that his lover was quite possibly a psychopath, after she’d tried to have him killed.

The Face shakes her head, bringing herself back to the game at hand. They are the only two in the room. The young Hutt doesn’t quite have the retinue and hangers-on that other Hutts have, although there is a room full of beggars and supplicants with the other guards outside. 

The holocomm beeps. A battered astromech projects the holo of a human male next to its master. An even more battered protocol droid staggers over. 

Rotta the Hutt speaks, his voice nowhere near as deep as his father’s. The human smirks under the ridiculous bit of hair over his lip, but quickly allows the expression to become more respectful.

Slightly. 

Moff Dorith Panteer nods. “What’s going on in the Kessel system?” he asks without the pleasantries.

“Whatever do you mean, your Grace?” the protocol droid intones behind the teenaged Hutt’s words. 

“Apparently I’m just now learning that our subject has been missing from the Pykes. Why isn’t your enforcer—or should I say the enforcer that you’ve appropriated from your father—ensuring that my asset is protected?”

“Maybe if you’d told me that other parties—both Imperial and not—are interested in your asset, I could ensure that she was protected,” Rotta replies. 

Panteer says nothing. Face is unable to read his expression. “Who else is looking from the Imperial side?”

“Don’t know,” Rotta replies. “I’ve just been getting some rumblings from others who might be interested.”

“You might want to find out who, Rotta,” Panteer says with an edge to his voice. “I think that we do have an opportunity to foster a very beneficial relationship, if you can keep hold of what I need you to.”

“Maybe I could make a better deal with those that are sniffing around,” Rotta replies in strangely accented Basic. 

“You could, Rotta. But your father might take exception to the fact that you’re cutting your own deals. Especially since you’ve managed to suborn his most skilled assassin.”

Rotta is silent for a second. “Perhaps. But I think we might need to move on. I can see if I can get the asset back. If I do, we should go ahead and dispose of her, before there is any other interest.”

Panteer shakes his head. “No. I won’t allow anything to happen to her, until my package is secured.”

Rotta stares at him. “Perhaps you should allow me to look into getting your other package. You shouldn’t depend on Mandalorians.”

Dorith smiles wolfishly. “I’d rather deal with professionals.” His holo fades.

Face grins at the fiery expression on Rotta’s face, a combination of petulant teenager and murderous crime boss. 

Another door opens. She sees Fenn’s hand move to his blaster, then clinch into a fist. 

Ming Lardai stands framed in the door. Face feels her own anger rise, but she doesn’t make any moves. She makes sure that the two of them can watch each others backs, to be able to meet any threat. 

They might stand half a chance against a killer like Ming Lardai. She remembers what Fulcrum had told her about Seoladen and her near-death at Lardai’s hands. Fenn had told her that there would need to be a reckoning someday, or the Conduit would never know peace. 

Today wasn’t the day. 

Rotta stares at Lardai. “You need to head to Kessel. I want her in hand, so that when we need to make the trade, we can.”

Ming stares at Rotta. “You need to not tell me what to do, Junior,” she says in Huttese. “Everything’s proceeding as I planned. I anticipated that Malaky would stick his nose in, especially after the indications we got when we first went after Ardalen.”

“Then who has her, since Malaky got separated from her as well?” Rotta asks. 

_Good question_ , Face thinks. She feels her lekku twitch with anticipation under the custom bucket.

Ming stares at Rotta, then switches her gaze to Face. For a moment, she wonders if Ming is about to draw on her. Lardai turns back to Rotta. “Okay. I’m headed to Kessel. But if I think it’s better to go ahead and cut Nath’s throat, I will.”

Rotta stares at the door that Lardai just exited. He says nothing as both Face and Fenn leave the room. They wait until they are completely out of the building before stopping. Face removes her helmet, breathing a tiny bit easier. After a moment, Fenn looks around, then, seeing no one, removes his helmet. 

To his clan, removing the helmet in front of someone, when on active campaign, signifies trust. 

It especially signifies family.

“So what do you think?” she asks. 

Her unofficial mentor grins. “I think we might just have our in. Time to let your boss know that it’s in her and Dani’s court now.”

* * *

Irnalyn Zabrin looks up from her datapad as Dorith Panteer stalks into the room. She manages to keep her eye off of her son’s expression as he does. Panteer’s eyes widen as they fall on her nude form. She stretches from where she lies on her stomach, working on her datapad, soaking up some of the sunlight that plays through the windows.

“That slimy bastard,” he yells, slumping into a heavily padded chair. Herjen rises from his chaise lounge, allowing the towel to drop from his middle; he immediately moves over to and behind Dorith. Her son drops his strong hands to Dorith’s shoulders and after a moment when the Moff says nothing, begins to knead. Dorith sits and visibly slumps as Herjen moves his thumbs down lower on his shoulder blades. 

Dorith smiles and places one hand on Herjen’s. “Ahh, that hits the spot, lad. Feels wonderful.” He lifts Herjen’s palm and kisses it. Herjen looks at his mother over Panteer’s head. She nods quickly. He smiles slightly and allow his eyes to shift to the black. Irnalyn can feel his more close range resonance activate. 

“What is it, your Excellency?” Irnalyn asks. 

“Should’ve known that the Hutt whelp was going to be double-dealing us. I shouldn’t have dealt with Rotta.”

Irnalyn gets up and walks over, kneeling in front of him. She takes his hands in hers. “You couldn’t have known that Ming Lardai, who’d made her reputation for her abject loyalty to Jabba, just as much as her ruthlessness, had taken this opportunity to undercut Jabba for his son.”

After a moment, he tightens his hands on her. “I know. But maybe I’ve been too desperate to find information on Melis. Everybody may be willing to exploit that.” He looks up and out the window. Irnalyn is certain that he doesn’t see the shipyards of Fondor, but a green, mountainous world. She begins to massage his hands in rhythm with Herjen’s manipulation of Panteer’s shoulders. Her own mind goes elsewhere, thinking, calculating.

Wondering if she’ll be able to continue in this man’s household, watching, drawing out information.

Waiting for the right time to admit to the world, her true power in this room. On this world. Her datapad signals. She looks up at Panteer, who nods. 

A woman’s face appears over the pad. A woman with nearly shorn light colored hair and dark eyes. “Hello, Moff,” she says. She smirks at the two Zeltrons standing and seated nude in front of and behind him. 

“I thought that you were dead, Leeza,” Panteer says, his eyebrows rising. 

“You shouldn’t believe everything that you hear, your Grace,” she replies. “I heard you’re still looking to be the King of Alderaan.”

Irnalyn tries to keep the surprise off of her face. 

“I’m listening,” Dorith replies. 

“You shouldn’t deal with all of these middlemen, Dory,” she says. “One woman has all that you seek.”

“I’ve heard that before,” he says dryly. 

“I have the girl in my view. I can get her for you, but you need to secure her discharge from the Academy.”

“How do I know that you’re not lying, Leeza? Antols lie as a matter of course.”

“You may have to trust a bit, Dory,” she replies. “I know you want to keep your fingerprints off of all of this, so as not to alert the Organas, but you might have to get your hands dirty.”

Irnalyn listens to the byplay; she sees the indecision on Panteer’s face. She tunes the conversation out, knowing that there would be a recording on the datapad.

Her mind travels back to her childhood. Irnalyn drops one of Dorith’s hands and reaches up to her neck under the purple and blue waves. 

She touches the tiny scar where a slave’s implant had once rested. She smiles as she thinks of all that is coming to pass. Something that had started when she was a child. A child on a planet in Hutt space, Nar Kanji. A child who’d vowed that she’d be her own master.

She feels herself sit as she realizes that Dorith and Herjen are leaving, the transmission ended. She smiles to herself as she sees them stop and Dorith pull Herjen into an embrace. 

Herjen nods slightly and smiles with his eyes as he kisses Panteer. 

All of their sacrifices, all of hers would be forgotten. 

One Hutt had already fallen. Another’s family might be riven in two. All because of one teenager and a noble’s desire to rule his birthworld. 

She sits in the chair that Panteer had vacated. Her datapad blinks with a text message. After a moment, she rises and follows them into another room.

Later, as Dorith Panteer thrusts inside of her, she smiles with a bit of deviousness over his back. She thinks back to the young Naboo that they had met, of what she had said about Dorith’s regard for his seed. 

She bites into the skin of Dorith’s shoulder. _He feels like he can deposit that seed in me. I’m in no danger of giving birth to the next Queen of Alderaan. But I can keep one safe that might give Dorith what he wants. I can help keep her from another form of slavery._

“Melis,” she whispers. She feels Dorith tense; she reaches up and smooths his forehead with her lips. 

Her son moves over Panteer’s back and begins to kiss his neck. His eyes are soft as he looks at his mother.

* * *

Ardalen feels the touch on her shoulder. She slowly forces herself to come out of the shallow sleep. Her eyes open, locking with the pale blue eyes of the older woman. Soma Jess smiles down at her. Ardalen rises and stretches; her shoulder locks. Without a word, Soma reaches over and pulls on her arm, helping the joint to unlock. 

“I’m supposed to be the one that creaks in the morning, sweetie,” Soma remarks.

Ardalen doesn’t answer, searching her mind to see if she had actually felt some sort of warmth in her muscles—a different kind that what she is used to from her Zeltron foster-mother. She remembers the fight with the Pyke that had caused the shoulder injury. A Pyke trying to hold her against the walls of the mine tunnel that they’d sought sanctuary in. One of many as they managed to elude both the Pykes and the Falleen’s single minded pursuit of Ardalen. 

They’d only managed to raid the small cache of food and water, talking several weeks of ration paste tubes and water packets. 

A sore, occasionally unworking shoulder was a small price to pay.

She focuses on Soma as the woman gathers up their once-again shrinking supplies. Soma had avoided answering any questions about how she’d come to be there. She’d exhibited a quiet strength as they moved from place to place in the labyrinth of the coaxium mines of the planet. Although they’d escaped initially to the spice mines from the lab, the caches of supplies they’d raided hadn’t included breathing filters for their masks. 

Ardalen brings her mind back to her rescuer. She knew next to nothing about the woman, although her choice of clothing, a threadbare tunic, trousers, tabard, all in dark green, with a threadbare brown robe, gave her a clue about Soma’s possible affiliation.

She hadn’t asked, knowing that knowledge of that particular suspected affiliation couldn’t be healthy for either of them—even less healthy than Ardalen pissing off several different crime syndicates, apparently. 

Soma touches her cheek, bringing her back to the present, again. “In the here and now, love,” she says. “That’s where you need to be, Ardalen.” She hands a packet of protein paste and one of water to Ardalen. “Tuck in. I’ve managed to finally make contact with an ally.” She smiles softly. “One that you might be familiar with.”

She steps away from the door. An older, thickset male Pantoran walks in, a shaggy white beard marking his features over faded facial tattoos. Her gaze locks on one particular tattoo under his right eye, one that is somewhat familiar. A stylized bird of prey—the symbol of a pilot for the Confederacy of Independent Systems. 

Her former employer—if one that soon had left her behind in its cruelty. His golden eyes narrow at her look, he then smiles at her, lowering the the blaster carbine cradled loosely in his powerful arms.

“I got out too, dear,” he says in a quiet voice with a deep, sharp Pantoran accent. 

He looks around, his eyes shifting downward as another figure moves just into the darkness of the outer cave. He nods to the figure behind him. 

Ardalen’s heart twists as the small figure walks in. His expensive business suit hangs in rags on his body, but his bright blue eyes are just as piercing, as when she’d met him, all those months before.

Malaky Thittan walks in and stands next to her, his eyes even with hers from her seated position. A warm smile breaks out over his mixed human and Falleen features. She reaches out and moves her hands through the graying topknot, letting it rest on the high cheekbones. He leans into her touch.

She pulls him into a tight embrace—the being that had managed to initially wrest her away from Jabba the Hutt’s Pyke allies; he’d managed to at least keep her from an uncertain fate. 

She shoves him away suddenly. “Where the hell have you been?” she spits. “I thought you were dead. Jetto said you’d been taken care of, in his words.”

Malaky smiles. “Had to make him and a few others in the galaxy think that. All part of my secret evil plan for galaxy domination.”

Ardalen sees Soma roll her eyes. “At least you’re still humble, old man,” she says. “So what’s the plan?”

“I’ve managed to secure another enclave. Maybe it’ll be more defensible than the last one. I’ve gotten word that help’s on the way. Plus, some more allies have arrived.” His expression darkens. “Well, at least they’re warm bodies.”

He motions to the older Pantoran. “This is Chi Hern, a very good pilot. If push comes to shove, we’ll steal a ship. Everybody tells me that you’re a halfway decent engineer, dear.”

For the first time in a long time, Ardalen Nath feels something like hope.

* * *

Bryne breathes in the early evening air as he exits the transport tube station. He turns, as he has for the last month and begins to walk up the street to the building that he had called home for that time.

 _Well, a place to rest_ , he thinks. _Not really home_. He spies his building in the middle distance; he’s able to pick it out even without the Corellian corvette that had been moored on the roof. Tamsin had taken Meglann and her A-wing for the rendezvous with the others on Ord Mantell. He smiles as he’s able to take comfort in the fact that all of his loves—his Links and his Hells will now be in one place. 

_Maybe not all_. He and Delilah Sal were still here on Mandalore, trying to figure out how to get Melis out of the Imperial academy and the clutches of the Saxons. Delilah had been quietly feeling out a way to get Melis discharged without any stain on her record, to prevent her from having to hide for the rest of her—or at least the Empire’s—life.

At this point, with all of the obstruction from the Saxon’s, Bryne would be fine with taking her and finding a quiet place to retire. Only emerging to see his hunt-sister. He shakes his head. _She wouldn’t come with me_ , he thinks. Ahsoka Tano would never leave the fight, not while there was still fight to be had.

He shakes himself out of his dream, just in time to dodge one of the innumerable rental flitters that plague this city’s walkways. He refrains from elbowing the face of the flitter-rider’s companion, not wanting to call attention to himself with the Imperial patrol troopers. His expression darkens as he thinks of the Imperial cops that were starting to supplant the patrols of CorSec on his own world—not that CorSec was anything more than a shadow of itself, even in the last two years. 

Bryne sighs, shaking thoughts of Corellia from his mind. He does feels a bit of a triumph that he seems to somehow be wrapping up a lucrative deal for his grandmother’s family company, The Ancient Whyren. A deal with Vheh’yaim and some backers from Mandal Motors that would funnel money into the coffers of the Crowneshield Foundation, and hence, a more shadowy, embryonic organization. 

In addition to actually funding relief for the galaxy’s refugees, the Foundation’s ostensible mission. He thinks of the days spent in his borrowed office at the Mandal Motors building, exploring the intricacies of the deal, as well as the firewalls put into place to safeguard his worlds and others. 

He remembers seeing one name on one of the documents. Shaizan Financial, the Exalted and Noble House of Naboo finance. Thoughts of the Dai-lin—the ‘big shot’, and one night of passion move through his mind. His breath catches at the vision of the tiny girl with gold-flecked green highlights to her teardrop shaped eyes—if you catch her in the right light. A girl growing up with another as her father of record. 

Yet another result of a galaxy gone dark and mad. He shakes his head as a slight roaring sound comes into his senses—something that you might’ve heard as a matter of course a century ago in Sundari, when the warrior clans reigned supreme.

Not so much these days. He turns just in time to dodge a blaster bolt that crashes into an abandoned rental flitter. He draws his WESTAR, having left his DL-44 in the apartment—it didn’t exactly go with the gray business suit—and opens fire on the beskar’gam’d figures arcing in. He scores a hit, knocking one off of his flight path, but otherwise doing no permanent damage. 

Bryne looks around quickly, toying with the idea of grabbing the rental flitter to speed his way to the shelter of the apartment. He discounts that thought immediately, having watched the normal citizens try to navigate the crowds on the damned things. He is sure that he might be able to do it, even without the Force, but returning fire while flitting might be problematic, as the kids say.

He spies the thug that he had hit swooping down closer to him. His vision locks on a spot where the unmarked armor has slipped from the bodysuit. He can only hope that the suit isn’t beskar-infused like his own. He fires a quick shot.

The thug smashes into the ground.

 _Nope_ , he thinks. _Not everyone was in the good graces of a journeyman armorer like J’ohlana Wren-Blackthorn_. For about the millionth time, for one of many reasons, he thanks whatever deities might be out there for the brief time that she’d been in his life. The beskad in his heart only twists once at the thought of his wife.

Progress.

As the thug lies face down and inert on the pavement, Bryne manages to snag the jetpack and bring it to his back. He punches a button on his wrist comm, and opens fire on the three thugs still aloft and shooting. The comm emits a ding, signaling that it is paired. A quick tap and the wind cuts into his face as he soars upward. 

Probably all the way to the seventy meters that he can somehow remembers is the recommended operational ceiling of this particular jetpack. 

He reaches down to make sure that everything is still with him, although his stomach seems to be lagging behind. As he does, his body twists and goes into a spin. He lifts his hands, able to at least slow the spin. He pulls his head down, hoping he can aim towards his brief sanctuary. 

_Where the hell’s Tamsin?_ he thinks. _She was due back today_. He reaches over to his comm, fighting to maintain an even course, and touches it, sending a burst towards a small Alderaani-style restaurant. He yaws again. “Oh shit,” he says to himself, “these things aren’t exactly designed to work with business suits.”

Another figure flashes into the corner of his vision—a figure clad in familiar black armor. _Finally_ , he thinks, _at least she didn’t stop for a booty call with her ex-boyfriend_. Tamsin brakes, easily sliding in next to him. 

“You fly like old people fuck, bud,” Tamsin says, “slow and sloppy.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” he manages to snark back. Without another word she reaches out and shoves him. He manages to avoid a beam sticking out from the building and arcs upwards and outwards to his apartment building. She turns and opens fire with her carbine, slowing at least two of the attackers. 

Two more join the attack, ignoring Tamsin and moving towards him. Bryne opens fire with his blaster again, managing to keep his balance. “Where’s the ship?” he asks to the open air. 

“Held up by that damned Imp cruiser,” she replies in his ear. “Otherwise, I might risk the turbolasers.”

“Gee,” he says, “you’re so generous.”

“Stop screwing around and start flying,” comes a gravelly voice in his head. Two of the lesser armored thugs explode in a burst of light. The others start to dodge slightly larger bolts. One more starts to plummet as the jetpack is hit by the mounted cannon of a speederbike. Bryne grins at the concentration on the face of the little girl, as her father holds on with one hand while firing his carbine with the other. 

Bryne shakes his head, as he turns towards his apartment balcony. At the last second, he applies the braking thrusters. His head moves slightly. 

“Shiiiit!” he yells, as his head impacts with the window. Fortunately, his head is harder than the glass, as it shatters around him. 

He impacts with the hardwood floor, on his left side. The jetpack continues to fire until he is propelled into the kitchen counter. 

It finally sputters out. A sharp pain in at least two places on his side lances through his mind. He sees movement in his periphery. 

“I fucking hate jetpacks,” he says through the pain.

Two figures in armor stand there in the balcony, floating above the floor, as if taunting him with their skill. Bryne scrambles for his blaster. 

The larger figure removes his helmet. One baleful dark eye stares at him. Something like humor moves into the gaze. 

Quickly replaced by sadness as Tarranic Vheh’yaim lands, followed by Iris Rook as she removes the helmet of her purple armor. Bryne takes a deep breath, having never seen his grandfather in his own armor. 

The gray color—the color of mourning.

Tarranic kneels next to him. Bryne can see Iris holding her breath at Tarranic’s expression. He removes his glove and reaches out. He touches Bryne’s face. Bryne closes his eyes for a moment, then focuses on the old man.

In one instant, a panoply of emotions crosses over his face. Anger, hurt. Bryne knows that similar emotions move over his own face. 

With one added. 

Abandonment. 

He realizes that Tarranic is looking into his eyes. “You’ve got her eyes, boy. How could I throw those eyes out of my life?” he whispers. He looks down, silent for a moment.

Bryne knows who the ‘her’ is. Nadara Shysa. The beloved daughter of he and the Shysa heir—the heir that had given a footloose mercenary her name and her body.

Her heart as well. A daughter now ‘marching far away’, as his people say, along with her mother.

“I really hated the Corellians,” he says evenly. His voice then breaks. “They took her from me, as well as her love.

“You’re the only thing I have left of her.”

* * *

Dani watches as Ahsoka drops the thug that had objected to them entering Rotta’s audience chamber. She grins at her ‘bodyguard’, at the four or so thugs that this one joins. Dani rolls her eyes at the almost dainty manner that her own thug wipes her hands. 

Two other thugs, both in some form of Mando armor, watch dispassionately. Dani raises her eyebrow at them. The one with lekku shrugs her shoulders and turns to face their boss. Rotta stares balefully at them, as if waiting on them to join the quartet on the floor. The effect is just not as impressive coming from a Hutt barely out of larval stage. She sees Ahsoka’s eye grow sad over the mask’s eyeslit.

Dani’s smile grows wider. “You just can’t get good help anymore, bud,” she says dryly. 

“You will respect me,” Stinky bellows. She manages not to say the nickname when she addresses him. “Come on, Rotta. Daddy ain’t going to bail you out of this one. We’ve got you on tape talking to his now-traitorous trusted right hand. He’s already got the bounty out on her. Most impressive one, too. The only question is now, whether his beloved little brat will join her when she’s dangling from the rack.”

Rotta starts to open his mouth, his tongue moving nervously in the maw. “What do you want?” the protocol droid finally intones. 

“Passage to Kessel for a ship. That’s all we need. We’ll take care of the rest,” Ahsoka says through her voice modulator.

Rotta shifts his gaze to her. He stares at the blue eyes regarding him calmly. His expression, if Dani knows her Hutt expressions, speaks of someone trying to place part of a face from his past. 

Either that, or he has gas. “I could use a thug of your abilities, woman,” he says. 

Dani breathes out as he turns away. “Your daddy might make me a better offer. Tempting as it is, I think I’ll be happier being a kept woman for a Senator,” Ahsoka says.

The protocol droid hands Rotta a datapad at his gesture. He manipulates it. Dani’s comm buzzes. _We’re in business. Better get out before Phygus’s slicing invariably goes to shit._ “We’ll be in touch, if we want something else,” she says, “I’m pretty sure our squeeze on your proverbial balls might be the gift that keeps on giving.”

As they exit, they can hear Rotta bellowing at his two Mandos. 

A bellowing cut short as they walk out behind them. The Twi’lek grins as she looks at her wrist comm. “Gonna miss that bankroll from the Hutlet,” Face says, looking at Ahsoka. “He pays much better than you do, Fulcrum.”

Dani can hear the Smirk in Ahsoka’s voice. “Yeah, I know. Just let the zeal that you have for the galaxy’s freedom be your pay.”

They can all feel the eyeroll behind the mask. “I have offered to take my pay in other ways,” Face says, a hint of a suggestive tone in her voice. 

Dani can almost feel the blush coming from Ahsoka. Fenn Shysa snorts. “As much as I’m enjoying the foreplay, I think I need to get back to Mandalore.” His bucket turns toward Ahsoka. “I think I need to keep your boyfriend’s nuts attached to him.” In spite of the snark, his voice is filled with worry. 

As he leaves, Dani reaches out and takes Ahsoka’s hand. She doesn’t need the empathic gift of her people to feel the worry rolling off of Ahsoka in waves.


	10. Riders on the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing and reflecting. Sometimes while being chased.

Tarranic watches as Bryne struggles to wake after his immersion in the one bacta tank that the restaurant possesses, in the ‘private’ spaces in the rear. The Corellian lies on a couch; Tarranic can see his grandson’s eyes moving beneath the lids, a sign that he might be coming out of the drug induced haze. 

Two broken ribs, a concussion, as well as the earlier injury from the Imperial simulator droid, had been catalogued in his battered meddroid’s voice. 

All but the shoulder injury from days ago had been addressed by the bacta dip. The puncture wound had passed the time that it could’ve been addressed and was very deep. 

It might cause his grandson some trouble in the future, as he got older. Along with the injuries that already would from his first thirty-odd years. 

Tarranic lifts his right hand and begins to massage the right eye under its patch. 

“Can I give you some more painkiller?” the droid asks as he walks up. 

“No. I’m good. Mind your own damn business,” Tarranic replies absently. 

“If you can’t remember, you actually are my business, old man.”

“Maybe I should’ve paid extra for the bedside manner.”

“Perhaps. When are you going to come clean with everyone about how you lost your eye?” the droid asks. “You, Iris and I know you didn’t lose it in a knife fight, unless you count my laser scalpel as a knife.”

“So how did you lose your eye?” comes from the couch. 

Tarranic slowly turns and looks at Covenant, now sitting up, a blanket pooled at his waist. “None of your business, bub,” he says.

Covenant narrows his eyes. “I think the fact that we’re working on getting the Saxons to give up that girl, and keep me from getting, well, dead, gives me some rights.” He stands up, manages not to sway too much. “Plus, I think you owe me a few things. Maybe even a life.”

Tarranic feels his heart twist at the matter-of-fact words from his grandson. He looks down. “Really? You were raised to use your gift—trained in it. We wouldn’t have been able to do that. Hell, Bel Iblis and the Corellians weren’t even able to. I think you did okay.”

Bryne looks at the droid, who somehow takes the hint and leaves the room, shooting Tarranic a look as he does. “That’s a matter of opinion.” He looks away. “Maybe I would’ve never lost my family, if I’d never known them,” he finishes. 

“You think of those d’kuhts, as your family?” Tarranic scoffs.

Bryne rises, holding the blanket over his lower body. Tarranic can see his anger rising. He calms, appearing to center himself. “Maybe so. At least the Jedi took me in. They didn’t toss me away.”

Tarranic rises and walks over to him. “You might be dead now, with them. He takes his turn at looking at the ground. “Maybe I could’ve protected you, if I could’ve gotten over my anger and grief,” he says quietly. 

He looks up and into those damnable green eyes. Bryne turns away. “I need to get with Delilah Sal and Yelena Dao. We’re going to the Academy and come clean with Melis. I’m doing my damndest to reunite her with her mother and keep her from everybody who wants to use her.”

He stops as he picks up his trousers, dropping the blanket. “It’s up to you if you want to include yourself as someone who’s using her.”

Tarranic is quiet as he is left alone.

* * *

Bail smiles and rises as Draq’ Bel Iblis is shown in. He walks over to the table next to the window—the one that overlooks the nearest snowcapped mountains. The two old friends embrace. 

“So what do you need, you old bastard?” Bail asks. 

Draq’ grins. “Nothing much. Just one of your pilots. Heard he’s made some Kessel runs before.”

Bail allows his expression to darken. “Please. Take him.” He stops with a look of mock sadness on his face. “You _are_ talking about Chardri Tage, right?” 

“Yep. You seem a bit eager to loan him to me,” Draq’ replies, his eyes narrowing. “Got anybody else? I’ve taken one of your castoffs already. I’d trade ‘em both for Meglann to be transferred, rather than loaned.”

Bail looks down, a smile moving to his face, one without snark, only warmth. “No. You have her in everything but name, unless you count her fancy Corellian codename. Plus, I don’t think I’ll give you Chardri for more than a temporary job. In spite of being an arrogant pain in the ass, he’s good at what he does. Plus he’s never called me an asshole to my face like the other one—Tamsin has.”

“Well, a guy’s gotta try,” Draq’ replies. Bail watches as Draq’ grows serious. He busies himself pouring two glasses of brandy, while Draq’ builds to what he has to say. 

Draq’ takes a sip. “I think we’re close to getting that girl away from Panteer,” he says finally. 

Bail takes his own sip, waiting. He pushes a button on his datapad. “That might be one less thing we have to worry about, if we can ensure that she is firmly away from Dorith’s machinations for the throne of Alderaan.”

“That’s what we’re working on. That and rescuing her mother from Kessel,” Draq’ replies. 

Bail smiles. “So that’s what you need Chardri Tage’s questionable charm for.”

Draq’ is about to reply, but the door opens. 

A woman of medium height, in her mid twenties or so, walks in. Bail and Draq’ both rise and bow. Bail can see Draq’s eyebrows rising. 

“Draq’, this is Camille, Grace-Regent of the House of Panteer. Dorith’s niece and closest female relative. Your Grace, this is Draq’ Bel Iblis, retired Procurator-Fiscal of Corellia.”

The young woman smiles, an expression that lights up her somewhat grave, but beautiful and delicate features. Her large, dark eyes crinkle in the smile. 

“You’re the Dragon, aren’t you?” she asks, extending her hand. 

Draq’ smiles—one that is much less than the vaunted smile of that reptilian origin. He takes her hand and bows over it. “I’ve been called that before, milady,” he replies. He holds her hand in a loose grip, motioning to the seat next to him on the couch. 

“You might be the one that Dorith wanted to put on the throne?” he asks. 

Bail holds his breath, waiting for the reply. She looks down, then back into Draq’s eyes. “ Maybe at one time. But he’s moved on from me,” she says. She looks at the door behind her. “I’m not obedient enough for him,” she whispers. 

“I know things about him. Things that could put him in prison on most worlds.” Her eyes narrow. “So tell me, Dragon,” she continues. “Can you get that young woman who is his latest project to safety? My apparent cousin?”

The words hang in the air between them as Bail watches the gears grind in Draq’s head. 

The gears stop at the next words. 

“I will offer her sanctuary, if it’s needed. Like I said, I know things.”

* * *

Delilah Sal places the cup of caf at Crix Madine’s elbow on the camp desk. He smiles his thanks, but his mind is thousands of parsecs away. On a world that has a strange mix of the industrial and the beautiful, but one that the industrial is once again starting to overwhelm the beauty. 

Crix thinks of the last communication that he’d had with his son and daughter, now in the care of his own mother and father. He wonders how many other sons and daughters are growing up with a generation ahead of their own parents. 

Because both parents are far away, serving the greater glory of the Empire. He shakes his head, knowing that he has responsibility for that new normal, at least in his own world—on that formerly green part of Corellia, one that an industrial pall now hangs over it. 

He curses himself as he sees all four of his loved ones waving at him from the holo. The breath masks in place on all four of them. He wonders if his his mother will see another season. Then his father will be alone with a sulky teenager and an energetic preteen. 

All for the greater glory of the Empire. Not Corellia, any longer. He reaches into his pocket and brings out the old Republic rank insignia. Something that he’d kept with him from the transition to Empire. 

In his heart, he’d known that the corruption and lethargy of the Republic would have to give way of its own unwieldy weight, for something new, something with energy. Energy and order. 

Only six years, and he could already feel the lethargy pressing on his mind and body—the inertia of the Empire, with terror as the watchword, rather than energy. An order that benefitted only a select few. 

He notices that Delilah is looking at the old rank plaque. For an instant, he wonders if it was the brightest move in the universe to bring out the nostalgia in front of an ISB officer, one whose loyalties are not exactly stable, but in flux. She smiles at him and touches his hand, covering the insignia. 

With her other hand, she reaches into her pants pocket and brings out a small metal object. His eyes fall on the single gold bar. A bar, when worn at the horizontal on the right side of the chest, indicates a passed Deputy Constable of CorSec. At least the old CorSec. This woman had seen to the reorganization, of the abolishment of the old rank system in her first official act as Imperial Advisor for Security. 

He raises an eyebrow. She looks down, then meets his eyes. “I know,” she says, “not my finest hour. I guess when I did that, I was angry. Angry at CorSec for casting me out. I had the power and I used it.”

Crix says nothing. She takes a sip of her cooling caf. “I think I was resentful of a lot of things. Some very dedicated people have shown me a way. A way to preserve the old ways of Corellia—something we’re losing quickly under the New Order.”

“You think if we do this—if we help save that girl from the Mandos and Imperial service—that will help Corellia?” he finally asks. 

Delilah looks away. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “I really don’t. But I think that maybe one life changed may turn the tide. At least for me.”

After a moment, he nods. He feels his expression darken. “What if she is the one to change the Empire for the better? From within?”

Her next words cut through his heart, a heart formed at an early age from the idea of duty. 

“I think we are the ones that will change it from within. From within, at least for now.”

Crix Madine thinks of the other thing that had formed his heart. Something now lacking in his service to the Empire. 

Honor.

* * *

Tarranic looks up from his datapad as Iris walks in, clad in the bodysuit of her armor. He smiles slightly; she’d worn her armor more in the last few days than she had in years of being a part of the Unwanteds. She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him. 

He sighs and shifts the datapad over, then points at the couch next to him. He had read the same line at least ten times. A look again at Iris’s expression tells him that she might be trying to figure out the same thing he was. 

“So what’s going on here, Tarranic? She finally asks. “We’re getting involved in something that I’m not fully understanding.”

He grins at her as she kicks off her shoes and pulls her legs under her. He reaches and out and brings her closer to him. After a moment, her stiffness relaxes and she rests her head on his shoulder. “I’m not so sure I understand it all, but we’re getting attacked because of something that happened about fifteen years ago.” He reaches over and kisses her on the forehead, then lifts one of her hands from her lap, kissing her wrist and the hidden scar.

She waits patiently. He sighs and nods. “I guess you deserve to know. Around that time, I was contacted by an old acquaintance from my early days. A former pirate who I had worked with a few times. She’d always been honorable and dealt well with Jetto and me—sending us work when she could.”

Iris raises her eyebrow with only a hint of challenge. “She?” A smirk paints over her face. “I know how you work with someone called ‘she’,” she says. She reaches over and kisses him softly, stilling the single eyeroll and smoothing away the wrinkles on his forehead. 

“Could I finish?” he asks, allowing a sheepish grin to disappear from his features. 

“Maybe. If there’s some indication that we might be stripping down and ‘working’ a bit after story time.” She yelps as he reaches over and bites her ear. 

She keeps her hand on his cheek, as he continues. “Naatha asked me to do something for her. I did owe her a great deal, for how she treated Jetto especially.” He looks down, fighting the memories. “She wanted me to take a child into my protection.”

Iris says nothing, but continues to stroke his cheek, allowing her thumb to move over his lips, as if coaxing the story from him, but allowing him his own time.

“It was the worst thing I could do, having established the Unwanteds for those who were cast out. Maybe there was something else at play—my failures with my own family.”

She takes in a deep breath at those words. He wonders if he should. He’d never said anything about the past.

“Someone ambushed Jetto and the other one and took the child. Jetto was taken, Kal Skirata was injured seriously. I let my anger get the better of me. Kal left after I blamed him.”

“The Saxons somehow wound up with the child. I don’t know who ambushed us, it didn’t have the hallmarks of a Saxon operation.”

“It sounds like Jetto was more to you than a co-worker,” she observes. 

It is his turn to breathe in deeply and release it a moment later. “He was my closest friend. Maybe even closer than a brother. Before I met my wife, he was there for me whenever I would fall or get low.” He looks her in the eye. “We were there for each other.

“Until I wasn’t,” he whispers. 

He sees something like realization in her dark eyes. “You and he were lovers, weren’t you? Just like you and I are, intermixed with the working relationship?” she asks. 

He nods. “We’d fooled around a bit; he never begrudged my marriage and settling down. It’s only after I lost my family that the bond deepened. He once again saved me from myself. He did something that kept me from more regret, even though I was angry at him for doing it.”

“So are we at war with the Saxons over this girl?” she asks. 

“I don’t know. I think there are some factors at work—someone who’s instigating this.” He smiles warmly. “I met the girl. We meet every once in a while. I haven’t told her.”

She pulls closer to him. “You know, this whole thing started when a couple of things happened. First, you took that damned Antol witch in, against my better judgement.”

He feels his anger spike, but then calm. He shoves the dark expression on his face. “You of all people should know what the term ‘Unwanted’ means,” he says evenly. 

“True, but why did everything start happening when you took her in?” He doesn’t answer, merely stares at her. 

She switches tracks. “So what does that Corellian have to do with this? He seems to be at the center of this whole shitstorm.” Iris grins. “Something tells me that it might be genetic.”

Tarranic keeps his expression neutral. That causes her suspicion to rise. “What is he to you? I opened my legs for him.”

He feels his discomfort rise, causing an unaccountable flush over his features. He curses himself in his mind. “He’s part of my past. That thing that Jetto did that kept me from doing something eternally stupid, even if there was some degree of stupidity in what happened.”

“He’s family, isn’t he?” Iris asks gently. 

After a moment, he nods. “He’s my grandson.”

“I thought there was some relationship. Lots of good traits.” She smirks. “Some other recognizable similarities, as well.”

He manages not to blush again. 

“Is he Fenn’s son?”

“No,” he chokes. “He’s my daughter’s child.”

He sees the confusion in her eyes. He closes his remaining eye as the memories cascade and the grief rises.

“He reminds me so much of her,” he whispers, “someone marching far away. Like so many.”

* * *

Ardalen shoves Malaky forward, just in time for a blaster bolt to pass where he’d been standing, gaping at their latest attackers. The Pyke soldier who’d fired crows in triumph, but quiets as a large rock comes out of nowhere, knocking him backwards into his comrades. Ardalen doesn’t pause to reflect on the opportune assistance of boulders. She grabs Malaky, as his expression grows dark, and follows the pilot, Chi Hern through a hidden side passageway. 

“Put me down,” Malaky yells in her ear. “I’m perfectly able to run on my own,” he continues. “I’m only ninety or so.”

Ardalen files that information away, but doesn’t put Malaky down. Chi smirks at her, then turns to follow Soma through the labyrinthe of a new section of mine tunnels. She rolls her eyes, then says, “I thought you worked for him, bud. Why the hell aren’t you carrying your boss?”

“Not in my contract. I only carry him on any ship. I don’t carry nobody in my arms.”

“You can’t get good help anymore,” Malaky says dryly. 

“Less snark. More run,” Soma says. Ardalen notices that she has closed her eyes and reached out with her right hand as she runs. 

Without missing a step or hitting an obstacle. Several things that she had noticed about the woman had stuck out with Ardalen over the past few weeks of living in close quarters with her. 

Things that she had only read about, but never encountered. A preternatural calm—one that only deepened in times of stress. Small actions that had occurred, seemingly as if by magic.

When she had asked Malaky about his minion’s strangeness, he had merely smiled and deflected the question.

Something tickled at Ardalen’s senses—not any supernatural senses, but those that she had developed as she grew up on the streets. 

Senses that were now arcing over her nerve endings at this moment. Several large beings jump out in front of them, from yet another semi-hidden passageway.

Not the largest, but the most noticeable stops as all four of the fugitives slide to a stop. Ardalen stares at the blank eyes of Jetto, her erstwhile guardian. 

Neither side has any time to react as Soma holds her hands out as if shoving. Jetto is launched back towards the nearest stone wall. As chaos erupts, Ardalen notices that two large figures kneel in front of what appears to be a human in a skull-like mask. The two large figures are cloaked and their hands are bound in front of them, their heads down. There is something familiar about all three figures, something from her past memories. 

At the precise moment that Jetto connects with the wall, the binders fall from the kneeling figures. Their guard levels his carbine and opens fire at the thugs who had accompanied the Fallen. 

The cloaks are thrown off, revealing a Pantoran and a Zabrak, who immediately start seizing thugs and yanking their weapons. 

Ardalen gives a groan as she recognizes them, from a time now distant. The first year of the Clone War.

Sorentin Rhayme and Gral Kruvure have soon made short work of their attackers. The human has thrown off his mask, revealing a older male with dark, piercing eyes. Her memory supplies his name, from a brief meeting with her Zeltron mother.

Kal Skirata. 

Skirata stops firing, then moves towards where Jetto is struggling to his feet. “Jetto! Vod!” Skirata yells. 

Jetto’s eyes seem to clear for just an instant. He starts with recognition and manages to stand up. He screams and clutches his head where the box is attached. The blank look returns. 

Skirata slides to a stop, just as Jetto shoves him back, then turns and runs from the melee’.

Kal slumps to the ground, his eyes desperate as his eyes track the retreating figure. 

Ardalen hears a gasp and turns towards Soma. 

Soma sits on the ground, her hand holding her head as her eyes grow distant. 

“Something’s coming,” she whispers. She looks up at them. “Someone.” A perplexed smile spreads across her face. “Someone I haven’t felt since before the Clone Wars.”

Ardalen digests this information as something trips her recent memory. A word from Skirata. A word from his birth-tongue, directed at their adversary. 

_Vod_. The word for ‘brother’.


	11. One Piece At A Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pros from Alderaan and Tatooine; choices made.

Bryne walks through the gate of the Imperial Academy. He looks at his companions, wondering which one of them might betray him if he goes too far in talking to Melis Nath. _Kinda sure that both of them would, if it came down to me or them_ , he thinks. 

He breathes in, holding the breath for a ten-count before releasing it. Maybe not. Both of them seem to be good people, in a system that they didn’t sign up for. Especially Delilah, who he had watched shoot herself in the side with a blaster. All to possibly save he and another from Imperial arrest and execution. 

The three of them walk into a room and sit, waiting for the verdict on whether they will get to see Melis today. Madine immediate rests his head on the wall and closes his eyes, his breathing soon grows even. Delilah smirks at them both, then looks at the door, her eyes growing distant. 

Bryne focuses on his conversation with Tarranic. He could feel the regret in the old man’s body; his emotions were filled with it. Regret at his losses—the loss of his wife, his daughter, and as he described it, his best friend, Jetto Wasablim. Bryne wonders if he himself is counted among those losses, at least in the present. 

He’d turned and looked at Tarranic as he’d left with his last words. The old man sat there, his single eye locked on the horizon outside the window of his office. One hand rubbing the eye and forehead around his eyepatch. 

Iris Rook had passed him as he’d walked out, once again clad in business attire rather than the armor with the color of luck. She’d stopped before she’d walked in, her eyes on his with concern. 

“He’s alright,” Bryne had said. “I didn’t kill him.”

Iris’s face had grown cold. “You know, you have him all wrong. I don’t know what the hell you are to him, or what he’s supposed to have done to you, but he’s a good man. He’s kept this clan together and protected—when most of them had been cast out—some even about to be killed by their own clans.”

“Does that include you, Iris?” Bryne asked. 

He had seen the anger flash on her features, then grow into sadness. “It does. I was about to be executed—executed for doing the right thing, after being ingrained with nonsense from both Death Watch and then the Shadow Collective. They were going to string me up on that death tree with a beskad through my hands and then spill my guts with it. All because I wouldn’t kill any of those who wouldn’t join us on the orders of that mad Zabrak.”

Bryne had remained quiet, having heard the stories of Maul and the Shadow Collective’s invasion, towards the end of the Clone Wars. “Is that why you wear the colors of luck, rather than Clan Rook’s?” he’d finally asked. 

Iris nodded. “Maybe. All I know is that Tarranic Vheh’yaim and a couple of others managed to get me off of that tree, before my guts were spilled.” She reaches down and begins to pull her gloves off. It’s at that moment that Bryne realizes that he’d never seen her without her gloves or wrist coverings, even when both of them had been bare otherwise. 

He had taken a deep breath as she exposed the scars through her wrists—scars that are in the same position on both. “They let your feet rest on a small limb that remains,” she whispers, “they didn’t want my hands being torn by my own weight, before I bled out from the disembowelment or strangled by the cord around my throat, after they pulled the beskad from the tree and my wrists.”

Bryne lifted her hands to his mouth, kissing each scar. He knew that she’d seen the scar on his left palm, as well as under the beskar ring on his third finger. She’d kissed them in more intimate moments, when they’d finally taken that step. 

“I was married to one who’d escaped from Death Watch—who’d seen what they were doing to Mandalore. She’d abandoned everything she’d known,” he said. He looked away. “She dedicated her life to trying to find redemption for what she’d been. Well before Maul came into the picture.”

“What happened to her?” Iris asked.

“She died.”

Bryne comes back to the present as the door opens. He stands, smiling at Melis Nath. The expression on her face tells him that she’s wondering what she had done to come to the attention of three Imperial officers. _Well, two and one masquerading_ , he thinks. 

Yelena Dao follows her, giving him a smirk. Without a word, Madine and Delilah rise. “Time to put the rest of this madness into motion.”

Bryne rises and reaches out with both hands. After a moment, Melis takes his in hers, her eyebrows raised in perplexity.

“You only know me from our one little caper in the maneuvers,” he says. He looks at Yelena for encouragement. Yelena moves next to Melis and places her arm around her shoulders. 

“I know that you put your body between mine and some nasty metal,” Melis says. 

Bryne nods. “I would’ve done that for anyone. But especially for you. You mean a great deal to some people who mean a great deal to me.” He takes a deep breath. “Because of your mother.”

Melis’s expression grows even more puzzled. “My mother? She died in childbirth. She was from a lesser clan.”

Bryne shakes his head. “That’s what you’ve been told, love,” he says. He reaches out and touches Yelena’s cheek. “Have you really looked at your friend here? Looked at her face when she’s standing next to you?”

Melis grins. “Not really. She’s kind of ugly,” her tone light and belying her words. 

Yelena rolls her eyes and shoves her. “Look in the mirror, turd,” she says in her Coruscanti accent. 

Melis’s eyes track over to the ornate mirror on the wall of the room. Bryne can see her concentrate, looking at both of their faces. 

Realization hits her. She sits down, almost missing the chair. 

The resemblance is slight, but it is there. 

“Are you a Saxon?” she asks, her breathing starting to increase. 

“Nope,” Yelena says, sitting down next to her, pulling her even tighter against her. “I’m related to your mother.” She breathes out. “Your real mother.”

Melis’s eyes widen, as they start to tear slightly. “My mother died,” she whispers again. 

“No,” Bryne says quietly, kneeling in front of her. “Your mother’s quite alive. She’s related by adoption to people that I love. Your grandmother sent me to get you and make sure that you’re safe.”

“My grandmother?” she asks. 

“Yeah. We’re trying to get Mother out of a situation,” Yelena says. “Something that your real father has gotten her into, because he wants to possess you.”

Melis nods, then stares at Yelena with widened eyes again as how she’d referred to the parent. “You’re my sister?” she exclaims. 

“Half-sister. My father was three quarters Fondorian and one quarter human.”

Melis manages to grin. “Guess that explains the weird eyes.”

Yelena lets her eyes lock on the dark brown—making them look even more like Melis’s. She reaches over and kisses Melis on the cheek, the lips, then finally her forehead.

“What do you mean my real father wants to possess me? Isn’t that what fathers do?” Melis asks, her face growing serious.

Bryne takes a deep breath. “I’m not sure he wants you for you, dear,” he replies. “He ordered the death of a friend of ours, for simply refusing marriage, for embarrassing him. He wants you because you could possibly be his ticket to power on his birthworld, if he’s ever able to overthrow the rightful rulers.” He looks away. “Something that I and several others have sworn will never happen.”

Melis sits back, digesting this. “How are you getting me out of this?”

“We’re working on that, Melis,” Bryne says, “along with Advisor Sal.” He grins. “May take some faith on your part.”

After a moment, Melis nods. “Okay,” is all that she says. 

Bryne and Yelena look at one another. “You don’t seem to be too overwhelmed by this. What about the Saxons?” Yelena asks. 

“Never felt like I was part of that family,” Melis replies, her expression even. “Nor a part of the greater glory of the Empire or Mandalore.”

They rise as Delilah and Madine walk back in. “Well, the preliminaries are done,” Madine says. He smiles at Melis. “Welcome to the Mudjumpers, Corporal Saxon.” Melis’s eyes widen once again. 

“Your face’ll freeze like that, Doofus,” Yelena says.

“I’m about to punch a superior officer, Major,” she says, doing so on Yelena’s arm. Their shared laughter breaks the tension.

Madine looks at Bryne. “I’m doing this for Corellia,” he replies. “Just like Delilah is.

“I’m not a rebel.”

* * *

Edan Kozume strips her weapon, the movements almost second nature. She’d prided herself in her skill with weapons, with their care. With her ability to hit targets. 

It was their use against sentients that had always been her problem. Absently, she reaches up and touches her neck, feeling the faint, tiny bulge next to her spine. The price for that lack of ruthlessness. As she does—as she always does when she touches the control device, she sees herself on the hangar deck of the Star Destroyer, her hand bound and suspended above her head to a cable hanging from the overhead.

A squad of fleet troopers facing her with the black eyes of their blaster muzzles aimed at her. An instant before energy bolts would open her chest. She looks down into the bowl of water in the dim light. She wonders if the lines of worry and pain had been there since she had joined the Navy, or just since she had failed to fire on a ship full of innocents when she was ordered to. 

She wonders if she will ever be free of that haunted look of someone already dead. Dead, but waiting for her body to catch up. 

Edan hears the door open to the small room. She shakes her mind free of the memories and returns to her task. As she does, the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise, just as she feels a warm hand on her neck. 

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. She turns to face the interloper. Instead of the buy’ce of one of her Mando mercs, she stares into the gray-blue eyes of Pem Bouva. 

Her blood runs cold as the stormtrooper commander stares at her. After a moment, an icy smile quirks Bouva’s lips. She reaches down—Bouva remains standing over her, even though Edan is a bit taller than her. Edan manages not to flinch as Bouva’s lips touch hers. 

“You need to get ready to attack the Corellian and the Unwanteds again, Edan darling,” she says. “This time you need to make it real. There needs to be chaos.”

“What do you mean?” Edan asks, as she feels the hand tighten on the skin of her neck, the thumb circling around and massaging her pulsing carotid.

“I saw that half-assed attack from your hired thugs, dear, when you were trying to make it look like the Saxons were attacking.” Bouva replies. “A child could’ve done a better job of it.”

Edan keeps her expression even. “I haven’t received orders from Saxon, yet, to instigate another attack.”

Pem’s expression grows hard. “Doesn’t matter. Captain Enolo says it’s time to move.”

Edan feels her feet plant to the deck. “I don’t exactly work for her anymore. You assigned me to Moff Panteer. I work for him.”

Pain lances through Edan’s entire body. As she drops to her knees, fighting to return to her feet, she sees Bouva’s left hand, the one not on her neck, wrapped around a small device. 

“You may work for him, love,” Bouva whispers, “but we own you.” Her eyes grow hard. “Make it happen. Kill them all, so that I can take the girl.” She grins. “Panteer will find that he might be owned, as well.”

Edan remains on the floor as Bouva leaves. Her comm dings with a large text file. She doesn’t open it. Instead, she pushes another button.

Irnalyn Zabrin’s crimson features project above the device. Edan doesn’t waste time. “The other party is forcing my hand, Mistress. I don’t know how I can keep the girl out of Bouva’s hands.”

She sees a troubled look replace the smile. Irnalyn recovers quickly. “I need you to stall. I’ve got someone else in the true Saxon forces, I’ll let them know.” Her eyes roll. “Although the Saxons are probably stupid enough to force the issue. Also, I’m not your mistress. We aren’t slaves here. You can call me Mother, if you like.”

“Mother,” Edan starts, wondering how she was now in the charge of another criminal, albeit one who seemed to care about her, “I don’t know if I can. They have control of me.”

Irnalyn’s face grows tender. “I know, my love. But I won’t let you be a slave. You work for us, but I’m going to make sure that you’re free to make your own choices. Even if the choice is to work for the children of Nar Kanji.” Edan sees her look behind her. “I’m going to send someone to support you directly. Like me, they were once slaves.” She smiles softly. “Sa’klub,” she says as she disconnects.

Edan wonders if she will ever feel true hope again, as she repeats the Hutt phrase. _For the Children._

* * *

Meglann stands at the chart table in the aft area of the _Draq’stone’s_ cockpit. She watches the flat display as Boge M’Faru, former Imperial navigation and gunnery officer puts the navicomputer through its paces. R7-A7, Ahsoka’s astromech from her time in the Clone Wars, now in honored semi-retirement on Dani’s ship, is hooked into the ship and adding his credit’s worth to the conversation. 

A conversation that seems to be going nowhere, fast. 

_No_ , Meglann thinks, _we’re going nowhere_. The _Opportunity_ was already in transit—the pirate ship had found a shorter, if more circuitous route to get to the starting point of their Kessel run, through the gravimetric anomolies.

Ord Mantell’s position would apparently ensure a full two weeks to just get to the jump point, then the rest of the full month to get to the same place—two weeks behind Ahsoka and the others. They needed to arrive at the same time.

“Well, where the hell is this high-speed pilot we’re supposed to be getting?” Boge asks finally, chuffing in frustration and sitting back, his powerful arms stretching out from his body in fatigue. 

“Ask and ye shall receive,” says a voice near the hatch. A very tall human, with broad shoulders, walks in and immediately walks over to the pilot’s chair, sitting in the position of command. The low light glints off of his dark skin. A wry smile creases his face, causing his mouth to almost meet the two luxuriant sideburns falling from his otherwise high-topped, close cropped coiffure.

He spins the pilot’s chair around and sits, watching them expectantly. Both Boge and Meglann walk over to the newcomer. Meglann lifts her arms and places them across her chest. She notices that Boge hangs back. 

She glances down at the interloper’s broad chest, spying a rank plaque similar to hers. 

Albeit with more blue pips than hers. She drops her hands down and comes to attention. He eyes her with amusement. “I’m Tage. I’m here to bail you out of a problem. Watch and learn.” He glances at Boge, who still stands with his arms crossed. He rolls his eyes and turns back to Meglann. “I’d like some caf, little girl,” he says. 

Meglann feels her anger spike as her face flushes. 

She is barely able to sense movement behind her. Boge walks up to Tage and grabs him under the arms. Even though Tage is taller, Boge has much more bulk. He easily lifts him from the chair and shoves him towards the hatch.

“Don’t care who you are, bud. You’re here to do a job. She’s the captain. You’re just high-ranking talent. I may not be subject to Queen’s Regulations, but I do know that she’s the captain of record in the absence of the Captain-owner. Doesn’t matter how many ‘ocean stains’ you have on your chest.” He glances at Meglann. “Plus, bud, this is a Corellian ship.”

Meglann feels her eyes prickle with gratitude, but she stops them immediately, fixing Boge with a glare. 

He winks, then looks at Tage. Both behemoths stare at one another. Boge motions to the hatch with his head. “The Captain likes two sweetspice packets in her caf. I’ll take mine black,” Boge says. 

After a moment, Tage smiles. He comes to attention and dips his head to Meglann. Without a word, he exits.

Meglann shoves Boge, surprising herself by being able to move him a couple of steps back. “I can take care of myself, bud,” she says, “I know that he’s here to do a job I can’t. I’d get his caf for him, if it helped us get that much closer to Ardalen.”

He nods, his eyes on hers. “I know you can—more importantly, you would, Captain,” he says, making sure of calling her by her job title, rather than her rank, “but you don’t have to. He was testing you, challenging your command, but more importantly, he was testing me and any of your crew that might’ve been here. He wanted to see how we’d react to him trying to get what he could from you.”

A cup of caf appears by Meglann. Chardri Tage smiles at her with a disarming grin. “What’s your pleasure, Skipper?” he asks. His eyes lock on hers, before crinkling with the rest of his face in a warmer grin.

Meglann feels herself flush under his scrutiny, before returning his smile carefully. 

_Watch it idiot_ , she thinks, _didn’t anything Tamsin told you about him sink in?_

As she turns to the nav table, she sends a death glare to Boge and his smirk.

* * *

Nola Vorserrie feels the eyes of about a dozen beings on her as she enters the dim room. She walks up to the bar and places her elbows on the dingy faux-wood, forgetting her years of Handmaiden etiquette training. 

The bartender, a stout Whiphid, stares back at her. She places a credit on the bar and says, “Whisky, please.” She winces at the pleasantry at the end. _Okay, so you can take the girl out of the Handmaidens,_ she thinks. The bartender says nothing, but turns away. 

Nola sense two presences behind her. She curses herself for placing her back to the door and the room at large. She turns around, dropping her hands to her sides. 

“He’s not going to serve you,” the Trandoshan says. 

The other figure, a Rodian female, takes up the lecture. “This is a hunter’s bar. You used to be prey. Hunters don’t associate with prey—even those who somehow got the bounty lifted.” She makes a move towards the front of her gunbelt. “Especially ones that had a bounty on their pretty ass as large as yours was.”

“So what are you going to do, since I don’t have a bounty on me?” she asks. 

The Trandoshan speaks again, looking her up and down. She realizes that the Rodian is as well, although the look of lust isn’t as readable on her face. “I thought that you might be a morale builder for the troops. At least mildly entertaining.”

Nola breathes out, then turns to sidle past them, seeing her quarry in a back corner, his helmet on. She narrows her eyes at him, but somehow, he is unmoved by the Vorserrie look of death, as Covenant calls it. 

The Rodian grabs her arm. Nola makes a move towards the small Handmaiden blaster at the back of her belt. The Rodian stiffens as she makes the move to the blaster. 

Nola stares at the large dart in her second attacker’s neck. The Trandoshan starts to move but stops as he feels the large vibroblade that had appeared in Nola’s left hand. A blade resting against that which the Trandoshan had hoped to employ for entertainment. She pushes the blade in, eliciting a whimper from her opponent. _Good_ , she thinks, _I’m glad that part is where it’s supposed to be on a Trandoshan. It’d be embarrassing and not as effective if this was his hip joint or something._

“Anyone else?” comes from the corner that is the probable source of the dart. Boba Fett doesn’t rise, but everyone can feel his stare from behind the helmet.

She holsters the knife in her left boot and places the blaster that had appeared in her right hand at the back of her belt. She can’t resist, being who she is, smiling sweetly at the Transdoshan who is cupping himself against a further puncture wound, and blowing him a kiss. 

Nola sits opposite Boba and smiles warmly, but with a hint of snark. “Nice knife,” he says. “Did you always have that?”

“I’ll never tell. Nor if I have any others. My foster-sister usually carries a half-dozen, plus a couple of blasters.” She looks away, feeling the warmth at the thought of lessons from Dani. “I haven’t mastered her level of concealment, though,” she says. 

Boba looks down at her deformed hand, its small finger still at an angle. “I see your charm is still intact and working fine,” he observes dryly. 

“A girl has to have a gift,” she says. Even though he wears the bucket over his face, she had gotten pretty good in their brief time spent on Ganthel, at reading his voice inflections from under the helmet. “How’s business, Boba?”

“Business is good,” he says tersely. 

She rolls her eyes. “Right. I know your bounty list. Mostly bail jumpers and lost children.” 

He stares at her. “Then why’d you ask, smartass?”

Nola grins and puts a holocomm down. She touches the side. “I was being polite. Got some information on one that might be very lucrative for you. 

Ming Lardai’s cold eyes stare back at him, rotating between them. He shakes his buy’ce. “I make it a practice not to get involved with Hutts,” Boba says. 

Nola grins. “Kinda thought you’d say that. But this particular Hutt is the king Hutt. She betrayed him. We’re working on who she betrayed him with. But if you bring her in, it might lead to more bounties or work from him.”

He is quiet for a moment. He reaches out towards her left hand. She braces herself, knowing that the finger is a visible weakness. 

She needn’t have worried. He runs his index finger along it, with surprising gentleness. Maybe not so surprising, she thinks. “She have something to do with this?” he asks. 

Nola says nothing. He nods. He stares in the direction of the bar. A glass of whisky appears at her elbow. She picks it up and sips it, her eyebrows rising in surprise. 

Whyren’s Blended, if not single-malt. 

“Double the bounty on her and I’ll think about it.”

Nola rolls her eyes. “I’ll be there with you, evaluating your performance,” she says. 

“Okay, triple, since I’ll have to be exposed to your sparkling personality,” Boba says. 

Nola laughs, then takes his left hand in hers in an easy reverse handshake, avoiding the inclusion of the deformed finger. “We’ll see, bud. We’ll see.”

* * *

Boge M’Faru, former Alderaani Peacekeeper, Imperial and Republic naval officer, and professional smashball run-blocker, turns from the navigation table and looks forward to the two pilots. His eyes soften as he sees his Captain listening to Murta Locke, his former Peacekeeper partner. He keeps a smirk from his face as he thinks of Meglann’s progress in understanding whatever the hell is coming out of Murta’s furry mouth. 

He notices that Meglann’s brown eyes, normally sparkling with life, are distant as she looks out at the stars, alternating between them and the control panel—one that she’d just set up no more than five minutes ago. 

She stands again and pulls off her field jacket, the rank plaque prominent on the right side. She hugs herself in the thin tank top that remains. Boge can see the goose pimples that have appeared on the pale skin of her thin arms. 

Chardri Tage, Bail Organa’s ace pilot, is staring at Meglann, then at Boge. Boge returns his gaze evenly. “Is she ready? I feel like she set this jump up perfectly, after I gave her the roadmap,” he says. 

Boge continues to look at Tage, then turns away. “Why don’t you go ask her yourself, hotshot?” he replies quietly. 

Tage’s eyes flash, then grow thoughtful. He grins at Boge then turns towards the conn. Boge watches as he walks up to Meglann. He places his hands on her shoulders and guides her into the chair. He lifts her field jacket from the back of the seat and drapes it gently on her shoulders. He reaches down and whispers in her ear, underneath the bronze curls that are tied in a messy ponytail. 

Boge is struck by his tenderness, as she laughs with him. Murta watches them both, then turns to his console. Boge is unable to tell under the thick mustache and beard, whether he is smiling or not. 

Tage returns to the table, then moves over to the chair. His eyebrow rises as he realizes that Meglann is standing and is moving toward them, pulling her jacket off of her shoulders. Boge nods at her confidence. 

“It’s been three weeks, Cap. We’re ready for the final jump. We’ll probably make it to Kessel in about sixteen parsecs, the run you and this butthead have come up with,” Boge says. Tage rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, big guy,” Meglann says. “I’m going to go pee a final time, then we’ll hit it.”

Boge looks at Tage. “Yeah. Super high-speed Kessel runner. With the bladder of a small child,” Tage says. 

Meglann shoves him, then turns to the hatch. Boge reaches over and stops her, then kisses her on her cheek. She grins warmly at him and runs her hand over his shaven head. She turns back to her journey, stopping in the frame of the hatch, reaching up and touching the holo of the dark-skinned, smiling young woman in a tank top and uniform trousers.

Boge watches as Tage looks at the ritual with a raised eyebrow again. Boge smiles, wondering if he should relay the story of Jana Sloane, the first captain of what was then known as Republic Light Frigate (Commando Assault) 667. Now, as then, it was known affectionately by its various crews by another, unofficial name.

The Bucket. 

They don’t wait long. Without a word Meglann heads for the pilot’s seat, touching Boge’s shoulder and nodding at Tage. They both tighten their straps on their chairs and watch as she sits in her seat—the seat of command. She doesn’t even look at Murta as he straps her in and then himself. 

She turns to Boge and says, “Execute.” 

He barely has the time to punch the preselect on the navicomputer as Murta switches the sublight engines to standby and Meglann yanks the lever for hyperspace. They are instantly in hyperspace, streaking through the chaos. Boge watches Meglann, as the ship is yanked downward in the hyperspace lane. He looks at his hand, sees it start to distort. He realizes that Meglann is counting down, her voice sounding as she is embedded in tar. Her own figure distorts; he thinks she had started a ten-count, but his mind grows fuzzy. Next to him, Tage grasps his shoulder, holding on—he doesn’t know if it’s for his benefit or Boge’s. Out of the corner of his eye, Boge sees Meglann shove the hyperspace lever forward.

Someone screams as there is suddenly a gray cloud, interspersed with flashes of burning plasma and regular flame. He thinks that the scream might have come from Murta as they flip upside down—or right side up as the case may be. 

Boge’s stomach centers somewhere around his shaven head as they suddenly plunge downward at a perpendicular angle from their previous course. Their vision is lit by flame, then a burst of plasma, as Meglann fights the control column, bringing them up. 

Boge realizes that she is pointing at him. He sets the secondary preselect and she shoves them into hyperspace. There is less distortion, as he hears her voice—usually warm and clear—counting down from twenty. Tage looks at him with something like amazement. “She changed the hyperspace timing to compensate for the different position and attitude. I didn’t tell her how to do that!”

Boge barely has time for a burst of pride; he only has time to wonder if this was something she’d picked up from Lassa’s pirates, before they are in realspace again. 

Just in time for him to hear the scream again from before—but this time, he thinks it might just be his voice that emits the noise. There is a deep shudder from port, and then from starboard. He looks out the side ports to see the vast whiteness of bit of ice strike the port, then the starboard side. For an instant, he wonders if they’re about to be ground between them. The reassuring voice of their Captain begins the countdown—this time from thirty as she yanks the control column upward. The artificial gravity lags as they climb. Boge only then notices that they had been heading for an even larger chunk of ice—one that they are climbing up the pale surface. He punches the third preselect as Murta doesn’t even bother pulling the sublights into standby. 

They don’t slide into hyperspace, so much as tumble, straightening out just as they enter the tunnel. 

Exiting almost as quickly. This time all four voices, plus the two droid voices of Deuce and Arseven scream as a giant maw, replete with teeth as big as the _Draq’stone_ , starts to close on them. Boge sees Meglann’s hand move towards the hyperspace lever; he manages the one last preselect. 

There is suddenly a viscous, red syrup covering the viewports as they punch through the creature. As they collectively open their eyes, they see that they’re in a normal hyperspace tunnel, as near as they can see through the ports. 

“Another three days and we’ll be in orbit,” Tage says quietly. Boge wonders if he or Tage will ever let go of the navtable.

Meglann stares out at the chaos—at the substance covering the port. She finally speaks, in a shaky voice, “I wonder if Dani’s gonna be pissed.”


	12. Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Families join, then are split asunder.

Irnalyn stares out at the busy streets and airways of the Capital of Fondor. She breathes out as she compares the bustling ecumenopolis to the world of her birth, the Hutt colony world of Nar Kanji. She remembers the dingy streets of the human enclave, the more established native Jablogian pueblos, all overseen by a contentious group of Hutts, including one called Geddan.

The entire human enclave, including her mother were slaves of one or the other. The Jablogians had an uneasy alliance with the Hutts, serving as overseers and a more skilled strata of worker. 

She curses to herself, wondering when she will ever think of the world of her birth, without thinking of the thousands of slaves of her mother’s people—the ones still in bondage, as well as the couple hundred making their way in the universe as part of her band—determined to make a living anyway they can. 

Irnalyn’s mind escapes to her dreams of her father’s world. A Zeltron pilot who had strayed too far into the Hutts’ shipping lanes with a price on his head from Jabba and had been brought to Nar Kanji, to work his debt off. 

A brief night with her mother, before he’d tried to escape. Geddan the Hutt had seen to it that he would be an example to anyone who would defy him. 

Her mother had warned her what the detonator implanted into any slave would do to a human or Zeltron body. _What good would an example be if it didn’t take place in front of who the example was for?_

She turns as the door to the audience room opens. A very tall human nods at the fleet trooper. In spite of her training, and the gift of her nature, a gift from her unknown father, she feels her interest rise. The human looks at her with a pair of piercing blue eyes, set in a craggy face that looks like they were willing to plunge headlong into the nearest brick wall if they and their owner needed them to. 

His eyes tell Irnalyn that he is in late middle age, as she struggles to remember what she knows of her mother’s people. His body is that of one much younger, moving with barely controlled energy. 

His smile warms her; she somehow knows that he has more versions of that expression, including those that might show a more defiant nature. 

She hears a series of words from him, words that she only can pick a few out. She realizes that she is greeting her in the language of her father. For an instant, she sees the holos in her mind of that beautiful, peaceful, joyous world—one she’d never visited.

“I’m sorry,” she is able to reply in a halting version of that language, “but I don’t speak Zeltra very well. It’s not by birth-tongue.” She realizes she has made a mistake in the grammar at the last sentence in the possessive pronoun.

He nods, the smile staying warm. “What are you more comfortable speaking in?” he asks.

Irnalyn feels an even warmer smile spread over her face. “My birthtongue is Huttese, but as you can tell, I speak Basic.”

He rattles off a phrase in perfect Huttese, then switches to Basic. “I’m equally comfortable in both.”

“I think that my father’s culture believes that we go to where guests are comfortable,” she says, “so we’ll stick with Basic.”

“You say your father’s culture. May I ask about your mother?” he asks. 

“She is human,” she replies, “I don’t actually know what I got from her, except my facial features.” She looks down mournfully at the ground. “My height, maybe.”

The human grins. “My daughter somehow got my mother’s height,” he replies. He holds his hand up about to his chest level.

Realization hits her. “Your daughter is of the Song?” she asks. 

“She is. She is my life and my joy.”

“They do that for you,” she says. Another door opens and her own joy walks in. Herjen walks over and stands next to her. The human nods and reaches out with his right hand. Herjen takes it as she had taught him.

“My name is Draq’ Bel Iblis,” the human says. 

“I’m Irnalyn,” she replies, taking his hand after Herjen. “This is my son, Herjen.” She gazes at him. “You’re the one they call the Dragon. Apparently my mother’s people were from your world. My mother had a very slow way of talking, sort of like you do.”

He nods, his eyes growing warm, then sad. “So you were born in slavery?” She is warmed by the fact that he doesn’t call it by any euphemism, such as ‘bondage’ or ‘servitude.’

“I was. I escaped about four years ago. I was ‘talented’ and ‘sought after’ for my father’s people’s gifts. They let me off. A young woman, who I think you might call a Mando, went undercover and helped me escape. She was helped by her husband, who she said was from your world as well as hers.” She smiles. “She went in even though she was visibly with child.”

She stops as she sees him look down, his eyes tearing. “What, Mr. Bel Iblis?”

“I know that young woman, or at least her husband. He is my nephew.”

“I’d like to thank them,” she says, her heart swelling. It falls at his expression.

“She died,” he says, “she and her unborn child.”

“And your nephew?” she asks gently. 

“He died for awhile. He lives now.”

She and Herjen walk over to him and pull him into her arms. He sweeps them into his arms, as well. For a moment, she feels nothing but warmth. 

“Why are you here?” he asks, as he releases them. Irnalyn finds that she misses the contact.

“I’m repaying a debt. A debt to who I thought was one that had bankrolled your nephew and his mate,” she replies. 

Draq’s eyes narrow. “I don’t see Dorith Panteer being that altruistic.”

“He wasn’t. I’m repaying a debt to one who was. I’m also building my own way to free the others on Nar Kanji. Along with the true benefactor.”

“You are here to see Moff Panteer?” she asks formally, “I’m his executive assistant.” She grins. “Among other things.”

She sees him take a deep breath. “Be mindful. You may have traded one form of slavery for another, working for Panteer.”

She lifts a datapad and sends a text. “You’d be surprised at who the slave it,” she says. The ‘pad dings. She rolls her eyes. “His excellency says that he has decided not to see you,” she says. 

He shrugs. “No matter. I’ll take my proposal to Yosta Aspeff.”

She matches his expression. “She might be more receptive. Herjen, escort Mr. Bel Iblis to the Mater-Comptroller.” Her son smiles and nods. 

A brief embrace and a kiss below her ear and she is alone. 

Irnalyn grins, lifting her datapad. She pulls a small device from between her breasts, where it rests on a chain. She inserts it into the ‘pad, activating the privacy node around her. 

A young woman comes into the air in front of her. Camille Panteer smiles. 

“Hello, Mother-Protector,” Camille says. She speaks in a form of Huttese. 

“I think it’s time that our assets deploy to Mandalore. There are a couple of competing interests that might need to be interdicted, if we’re to help save that young woman from Panteer’s clutches.”

A large shape moves into the pickup, as does a smaller one. Both women are some form of green, but one is very large with a dark topknot over her reptilian features. Both bodies are dotted with water from the large pool behind them, as they lift towels to dry themselves.

“I’m sorry that I have to take you from your well-deserved rests, my children,” Irnalyn says, “but it’s time to help a young woman from a type of slavery.”

The Falleen nods, before sharing a look with the Mirialan. “It’s no matter, love,” she says. “Is there anyone you don’t want dead?”

“Well, the girl obviously,” Irnalyn says dryly. She stops for a moment. “There’s a Corellian involved, with some allies—the Unwanteds. They, at least the Corellian, is dear to me, for past services. The Unwanteds and a couple of others might be dear to him. Please aid them.”

The Mirialan nods, smiling warmly. “We’ll sort it out for you, Mother-Protector.”

She focuses on Camille. “Can you cover the expenses?”

“I can, Irnalyn,” the y0ung noble replies. She looks down. “I have a lot to atone for—because of various members of my family.”

Irnalyn shakes her head. “You have nothing to atone for. You helped me, as you are helping the ‘klub, now,” she says. 

The holo fades, leaving Irnalyn to her thoughts. _One day_ , she thinks. _The children of Nar Kanji will be free._

She thinks of the Huttese translation of that name, as well as the name of the group working to free them—a group now starting to make a small name for themselves among the dark corners of the underworld.

_Kanjiklub._

* * *

Ahsoka watches as Thyla rises from her spot over the navicomputer. The navigator looks down and grins at Phygus Baldrick, who puts one of his ever present datapads down on the console. She turns to Lassa, who stands behind the pilots, oriented where she can see both stations. 

Lassa stares expectantly at Thyla as she nods. 

“Looks like we’ve done it. We’ve got a course that we won’t need another refueling stop.”

Lassa looks at Ahsoka. A slow smile moves over her face. “Looks like we’ll beat your kitten by a couple of hours. We’ll probably even shave a couple of parsecs off with this route.”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes at the competitiveness, but smiles at her friend. She turns to Thyla and says, “Thanks, Thy. Good job. I guess Meg’ll owe the drinks.”

Thyla gives her a hooded look. “I’d like my payment in something else,” she replies. 

“Hey!” Phygus exclaims, “I did most of the work. Maybe I should get the reward!”

Thyla looks down at him with a fond look. “You’re right, little man. I owe a lot to you. You can ask Meglann to take you to the moon.”

The surrounding crew laugh at the disconcerted look on Phygus’s face. “Just make sure you take video of the ask,” Ahsoka says, “we’ll make sure you get to a meddroid in time after she cuts you down to size.”

“Already there,” Lassa observes. 

Phygus turns to her and blows her a kiss. He places his hand flat on his head, then pushes the hand out, leveling it at just below the pirate’s waist. “Looks like I’m just the right height for you, Captain,” he says dryly.

Lassa starts towards him. For a moment, Ahsoka wonders if there will be violence. She sees Dani grin from the aft part of the bridge, shaking her head slightly. Lassa stops and bends down. She gives Phygus a quick kiss. “Maybe we’ll try it, bud, after we get out of all this,” she says. 

Ahsoka and Dani trade another look as Phygus turns away, blushing furiously. 

Dani walks over to her, as does Lassa. She rolls her eyes as she realizes that both of them still stand away from each other. 

“So do we have a plan for this?” Lassa asks.

Ahsoka closes her eyes. “A bit of one. The master criminal Daaineran Faygan has a pass from Jabba. I guess we’ll improvise after that.”

Lassa reaches over and kisses her. “It’s what you’re good at, babe,” she says. Dani pulls closer to her, placing her hand on Lassa’s back. 

Both of them feel the warmth, not just in the place that everyone else in the vicinity feels. 

“So does anyone have any idea who’s involved in this whole caper?” Dani asks. “I can’t fucking tell who is who.”

Ahsoka is quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “Well, I can’t figure out why the Hutts suddenly started turning on Geddan. According to Shyla, he had been a more avaricious example of their species, but during the war, he seemed to have a change of heart. He was still motivated by profit, but he turned to less harmful pursuits such as credit-laundering and some legitimate business.”

“He was a slaver,” Lassa says quietly. “He palled around with Zygerrians on Nar Kanji.”

“But what about Melis? Somebody else besides Dorith seems to be involved. There seem to be a couple of players on Mandalore, as well as Kessel,” Dani muses. 

“Yeah,” Ahsoka replies, “I think they might have an Imperial flavor. Maybe a couple of different backers of the Saxons? Jockeying for whoever pulls the strings? At least based on what Bryne’s told me.” They all fall silent at that.

“Coming out of hyperspace, Skipper,” Gri, the young midshipman on the helm interrupts their reveries. 

The stars return to their pinpricks, against a background of intense grayness, punctuated by bursts of lightning. They all look to the maelstrom that had made this trip more difficult. 

The comm signals a message. “What kept you, slowpokes?” a bright, familiar voice says. 

They all turn to the viewport. A small shape with a broad green stripe circling it, rests in their vision. Dani’s eyes narrow at a couple of extra carbon scores and dents. All of them wonder at the substance that appears to be organic running down the length of the ship.

“Well, shit,” Lassa says, “how the hell did she beat us?” She looks down at the navicomputer. “We made it in fifteen parsecs, on this route.”

There is a terse reply from the speakers, from a voice that only Ahsoka recognizes, from a long-ago set to. “We made it in fourteen and a half, thanks to our crazy-ass Captain,” the voice says.

Ahsoka grins with pride. She examines her nails. “Taught her everything she knows.”

As she listens to the snark and laughter, a sensation moves through her Force sense. Not the one that usually does. 

Ahsoka Tano’s eyes grow troubled as she senses something from Kessel she hasn’t felt since before the Clone Wars.

Or someone.

* * *

Leeza Antol, now known as Majorina Hoare on various Imperial wanted holos, looks down into the sink at the remaining splotches of yellow. She smiles at the restored dark color of her hair; she’d decided to keep the same cropped hairstyle from her sojurn as an Imperial conscript—one that in spite of the proud tradition of the Mudjumpers, was little more than cannon-fodder, rather than the elite status of the newer stormtroopers. 

The hairstyle suited the shape of her face, while altering her features subtly. 

She pulls a towel over her upper torso and moves out of the fresher. She sits down, then pulls an object from her pocket. Six pairs of red and blue tiles. Something she had worn in only an acting capacity, as acting director of the Imperial Security Bureau. The equivalent of a full general or admiral in the serving forces of the Empire. 

Leeza places the plaque on the end table again. As she does, her eyes fall on her chest, with the glow and scar combination of her pulmonodes. The electro-mechanics hitch for a moment, as her memory-self fights for consciousness, the intense pain in her chest centering her. 

She looks up into the blank face of a former rival, but one who’d not seen himself as such. Wulff Yularen shakes his head at her, as her eyes focused. 

He reached down, almost tenderly, lifting her head and allowing a chip of ice in her desiccated mouth. 

“So I guess I’m alive,” she gasped. 

A brief quirk of one side of his mouth under the ever-present mustache and he answers. “I don’t think I’d be the gatekeeper of choice in your afterlife, Colonel.” His eyes fell, then glanced behind him. “Or should I say, Private?”

She remained calm. “Well, at least that implies that I’m not about to be marched out and shot,” she managed. 

“No. Dr. Zan Arbor spent too many Imperial credits on the saving of your life.” His eyes grew hard. “We think we can make use of her experimentation.”

Leeza takes a deep breath, regretting it almost instantly. “So who saved me?” she asked.

“Don’t know. We just know that she used some older tech in your pulmonodes. After I discovered this, she admitted that there is a certain amount of control built in, but you should function well. Well enough to be an asset to the Empire. Either by your death, or your life,” he observed.

“So the execution may just take longer,” she replied, after catching her shallow breath.

“Perhaps. But you’ll die for the greater glory of the Empire. Either as a soldier, or as an asset that we can use for your contacts in the underworld, when needed,” Yularen said.

Leeza closed her eyes digesting this. “So I’ve just exchanged one master for another,” she remarked. 

“No. Whether you live or die will depend on your skill. Minister Isard and I do have the control devices. But we’ve destroyed them. We won’t use them against you.”

Leeza shook her head at the name of another of her rivals—the one who’d replaced her as Director and had consolidated his power over both Intelligence and Security. “Oh, I’m sure that Armand has an alternative. But I know the destruction of the controls was probably your doing, Wulff,” she said. “I thank you.”

“You may not thank me after the basic training you’ll be undergoing with the 224th,” he said dryly. 

A noise behind her brings her out of her memories. She turns towards the open window of the balcony, picking up a blaster on the table. 

A Mando stands there, one who quickly pulls his bucket off. She growls and brings up the blaster at the sight of Mal Adede.

The minion of any criminal that would pay his rate. Including those of official Imperial-dom. 

Such as a young Imperial scientist with a twisted bloodline and a demented cast to her eyes. 

“You wouldn’t want to kill me, Leeza, dear,” the younger man says, “ not when I hold the means to ensure that you don’t wake up.”

Her eyes narrow. “I don’t think so, dear. Yularen made sure of that.”

His grin is dark. “Did you think Isard wouldn’t have a means of controlling you?” he asks, as he pulls out a holocomm.

“Hello, dear,” Noar Zan Arbor says. She holds up a small box. 

Leeza gives a brief scream as her chest tightens and her breath leaves her. She slumps to her knees, preparing herself for death. 

The pain recedes as she feels the pulmonode start up again. Zan Arbor looks at her dispassionately. “My insurance policy of inciting the Saxons, seems to have failed me,” she says, looking hard at Adede, “so you’ll be my insurance. Get the girl from the Unwanteds. I need her to be able to manipulate someone who I can use in my research, as well as teach Panteer a lesson. You can understand that, dear.”

As Adede leaves the way he comes, Leeza slumps all the way to the floor. She wonders how she will survive this, without being owned by anyone. Her mind falls on a snippet of a text, from someone in the same location as Panteer had been. 

A lifeline, if she ever found herself enslaved.

She touches the commcode in the text. 

The holo activates. A woman with crimson skin and warm blue eyes stares at her. 

“So are you ready to be free of the past, Leeza?” the Mother-Protector asks. 

Leeza grasps for the line.

* * *

Noar Zan Arbor clicks off her comm, then turns back to her contemplation of the framework of Project Stardust. She shakes her head at the last arrogant message from her nominal superior, Orson Krennic. _You’re getting sidetracked, my dear. You would do more good to concentrate on Stardust rather than all of your little projects._

She turns away from the viewport of the light cruiser and sits in the couch area of the flag quarters. She calls up her datapad’s restricted files and projects a chart of squares and triangles over the starfield, covering the other main project. 

She looks at the lines, all intersecting in the middle. A holo of her objective—or at least one that’s purported to be of Ardalen Nath—stares at her. 

A slightly smaller circle lies below. The Imperial induction holo of Melis Saxon, or Panteer, or even Nath stares back at her with a cheeky grin. She idly wonders whether or not the girl had faced punishment for that. 

She looks at two triangles on one side, under a square marked ‘Saxon’. The family in possession of Melis, as well as vying for Imperial favor. Gar Saxon stares from one triangle. Captain Cantos Lardai stares from a grayed out triangle above him. Lardai’s triangle is linked to her mother’s, and therefore to Jabba’s. The Hutt’s is linked to a square around Ardalen’s circle. 

There is another triangle linked to Gar’s younger brother, Tiber. A triangle with Mal Adede’s holo, and then hers. There is a dashed line to Gar’s from hers.

Several question marks are in triangles on the opposite side of Melis. One triangle has Dorith Panteer’s face staring from it, his ridiculous mustache, with the piercing blue eyes in his bronzed face gazing at her. 

Another triangle with the ‘Corellians’, then another with ‘Enolo’, marked with those interrogative symbols is somehow connected to Melis. Noar knows that agents of both are involved, either with the Saxons or with independents such as the Unwanteds, those mongrelized Mandalorian criminals. 

Above them all are two more diamond shapes, one with Draq’ Bel Iblis’s conniving visage in it, the other blank. 

The puppet masters?

She knows that either could be laughing at her, right now. 

She is somewhat amused herself at her scientific charts and whatnot. She’s fairly certain that her father would be laughing the hardest, even though his culture had nothing to do with her upbringing—only with her younger sister’s training. She idly wonders where Rhose Zan Arbor was. Her armor and most of her weapons had been found on a backwater world, shortly after the Stornan affair with Guerrera’s partisans and the Mando settlers. 

All but one blaster and one knife. 

She wonders if her violent younger ‘sister’ had actually renounced that violence; she’d been closer to Fenn Shysa in temperament than Noar. 

The product of not being a direct descendant of the Mandalorian, but one filtered through her mother’s cloning experiments. 

Noar smiles, looking at her reflection in the viewport. Rhose looked almost nothing like her, her hair dark, her cheekbones higher, but those aquamarine eyes are shared. She rolls her eyes. _Perhaps some would say they’re less demented_ , she thinks. 

Her anger spikes as she thinks of the last time she’d seen her father. The disappointment in his eyes. Probably at the fact that he’d allowed himself a moment of weakness at university. When he’d succumbed to her mother’s questionable charms.

“No,” he’d said quietly, when she’d voiced those suspicions,” I’m just sorry that you can’t see the good in anything. Just like your mother.”

Noar smiles when she thinks of what this project could bring—the added bonus. The embarrassment that could be brought to Fenn Shysa, because of his purported relationship to the alor of the Unwanted. 

That this might result in the death of her grandfather by blood, doesn’t enter into her thinking. Only the embarrassment for his son, and the utter defeat for one who had abandoned her and her mother. 

That her mother had been the one to shove Fenn Shysa away—with the blasterfire of a hired gun, is another thing that doesn’t enter her mind. 

A hired gun that had driven him back to Mandalore, shortly after she’d been born. 

Long before the decade ago that she’d reconnected with him, as he was leaving Mandalore for Kamino.

For his eventual destiny as the failed war-leader of Mandalore.

* * *

Melis—she doesn’t know what family name to call herself puts the stripped blaster down and stretches backwards, her fists placed in her lower back. She smiles at her newfound stubbornness; she wonders if that is a Panteer trait or a Nath, as Covenant had called her mother’s family. 

She sighs—the stubbornness extends to the fact that she refuses to call herself by her family name of record. 

“Taking a break, Corporal Nath?” a deep voice says at her back. She closes her eyes as she snaps to attention and turns. 

Major Crix Madine stands, with her newfound sister. Madine grins; Yelena forces him to, being unable to keep her ‘Lieutenant’ face. Yelena pulls her into her arms. Melis relaxes and moves into the embrace. It had been several weeks since she’d seen the slightly older woman. She realizes that Madine is looking at both of them, his eyes unreadable.

She straightens, as does Yelena. “I’m sorry, Major,” Yelena says. “I meant no disrespect.

He nods. “I know. Tetrarch Dao. It’s good to see when a family gets to visit,” he says quietly. 

Melis sees that his eyes are sad. “Are you alright, Major? Have I done something wrong?”

He starts, then shakes his head. “No, Corporal. Quite the opposite. You’ve been an exemplary trooper. I’ve watched you over the last few weeks. You, unlike even most of my officers, actually think your way through a problem. I think you’d be a better fit for a commando or special forces unit, rather than some ‘leg’ unit,” he says, with a certain dripping contempt on the last two words. 

She nods, looking down. “If you like, even though I don’t know what your path will be, I’m going to offer up the chance to become an officer, without going to one of the Academies. This is a rare program, but it’s possible that I could get you into the Apprenticeship program. It’s open to those who show some level of strategic thought. Something that I think you show the aptitude for. You might even get to go to a university, but will owe some service to the Empire during and afterwards.”

“I don’t know what to say, Major. I’m not sure—“

He holds up his hand. “I know. I’m not sure what the Covenant has in mind. Not even sure that he does. But I think you’d be a credit to any world that you would serve,” he says. He turns around. “Get that blaster back together. I’ll leave you two alone.” He smirks. “Maybe the Tetrarch will teach you something besides how to be a smartass.”

She and Yelena are alone. Melis turns back to the blaster. She feels Yelena’s arms encircle her belly as she starts to work. Her sister’s nose moves into the curls. 

“You do good work with weapons, sis,” Yelena observes. 

“It’s been something I’ve been good at. I can fix things.”

“We could use somebody like you at Dao-Aspeff. You think you’d be up for some engineering training?”

Melis closes her eyes. “Maybe. I don’t know what Covenant has in store for me.”

“Covenant doesn’t have anything in store for you, babe,” she hears in her ear, “he just wants to make sure that you’re safe and you get to meet your mother. It’s all based on what you want. It’s how these idiots work.”

Melis feels tears come to her eyes. She puts the finished blaster down and places her hands over Yelena’s. “I’ve guess I need to figure that out.”

“Yep, sweet cheeks, you do,” Yelena snarks. She breaks away and slaps Melis on her ass. Melis turns around and tackles her around the middle, pulling her against the wall, her hand going under her tunic.

Laughter rises as she finds the sensitive spot. 

Later, her forehead tingles where Yelena had kissed her in their parting embrace. She realizes that for the first time, she’s had more physical affection than she’s ever known in the last month, between Tarranic and Yelena. Actual physical affection discounting the hurried grapplings with classmates.

“I might could get used to this,” she says to herself. 

The door opens. She grins as she turns, thinking that Yelena had come back for more humbling. She freezes as a large figure in expensive white beskar’gam stands there, surrounded by other lackeys. The bucket comes off, revealing the hard face of her brother Gar. 

“What could you get used to, little sister? Did you think we wouldn’t find you?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks. “This is a restricted base.”

“We have authorization from the Imperial Advisor to get here and retrieve our property,” he says. 

Her face grows angry. “Property? I thought I was family!”

His smile resembles a skull. “That was polite fiction that we maintained for buir,” he says, speaking the word for father in Mando’a. “You’re just a bargaining chip. One that we could marry off or sell, as the spirit moved us.”

He jerks his head to his minions, while seizing her chin in his hand, turning her head. He reaches down and plants a rough kiss on her lips. He screams as she bites down; he shoves her against the table. Her hand falls on something. 

Gar spits blood from his lip. “Lardai has a buyer for you. Apparently the Moff of the Fondor sector will give me the blessing as Viceroy, as well as that of another Moff in exchange for your skinny ass. I’m almost willing to go it without their blessing, just to see you sold to Jabba.” He makes a move towards her, as does his two minions. 

Her hand fills with E-11 blaster and sends a bolt into each of the minions, who only wear durasteel rather than beskar. 

Dead center in their chests. Both collapse. Gar seizes the muzzle of the blaster, then screams as the bolt glances off of his side below the chestplate. 

Melis’s nervous system lights up as her vision turns blue from the bolts in the hideout blaster in his left hand. She collapses.

Her eyes open as she’s being dragged out. Her heart twists as her vision clears and falls upon Yelena Dao, her rifle out of its case and laying across her on the ground. 

She can see a smoking hole in her shoulder, as well as a crease along her shaven skull, oozing purple. Her eyes are unfocused and stilled in their color transitions. 

They close just as Melis’s does.


	13. Ain’t No Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares of the past, present, and future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a disturbing nightmare at the beginning of the story. It’s about four paragraphs, all italicized.

_The young woman realizes that the end is near. She comes back to herself, knowing what had transpired in the brief unconsciousness that she’d enjoyed. The pain in her wrists had eased, as they are no longer pinioned by the beskar blade; she only feels a dull ache. She takes a deep breath and stares into the T-visor of the Red-Helmet—the alor of this particular branch of Death Watch who floats in front of her. She realizes that the woman now holds the dishonored blade; her own hands are now free and hang at her sides. She is supported under her arms by someone else using a jetpack, the noose is slack around her neck, for the moment._

_She manages not to scream as the point of the blade enters the left side of her stomach. The woman touches her bare hand to the young woman’s right cheek. Almost gently, as the blade starts to move across. The finale of the obsolete and proscribed manner of death called the kyram’veshok._

_The Tree of Death._

_The point disappears, as does the touch, as an explosion registers in her mind. She catches a glimpse of a gray-armored figure swooping into her vision, as her would-be murderer starts to burn from the edges with the distinctive look of a pulse charge burrowing into beskar._

Iris sits up with a cry, the nightmare vivid in her mind. She looks around in the low light of the bedroom. Her eyes fall on the broad form of the formerly gray-clad savior lying on his back, sleeping peacefully. She remembers the feel of his beskargam against her face after he had lifted her from her dangling and cut the noose from her throat. There was a slight pain in her right hand as he had pressed a similar pistol to his into it. The pain increased at the powerful recoil from the weapon as she watched a Death Watch soldier explode from a bolt at the pistol’s highest setting. She had smiled and moved the lever down to a regular, standard setting.

As gently as he could, he had lifted her away, making sure that her other wounded hand was as comfortable as he could make it as they moved away from the tree. She remembered crying out as she saw his two accompanying rescuers falling from the sky as he opened up his Rising Phoenix and shot away.

She runs her hand through Tarranic’s hair, her fingers moving down over his forehead and his left eye—or, rather the lack of his left eye. The story—the fiction of how he had lost the eye in a fight was holding. She wonders how well it will, as more and more headaches manifest, increasing in frequency and intensity.

Iris looks up as a slightly lighter-skinned hand moves over hers. She looks at Leeza Antol, who is rising up from the other side of Tarranic. Leeza returns her gaze, then reaches up with her other hand, touching Iris’s cheek, drawing her towards her.

Iris closes her eyes, accepting the kiss. Both of them break away, touching Tarranic’s face. He stirs, but remains asleep.

There had been no sharing of the light in the last night. They had wrestled him into bed after the battered meddroid had administered a powerful sedative.

They rise as one, both pulling on robes, as they move into the outer room. They stare at one another, then sit close on the couch.

“Do you think we’re going to be able to get Melis from the Imperials?” Leeza asks after a moment.

Iris feels her eyes narrowing. She wonders if she can actually trust Leeza, if her former life as an ISB officer and crime lord would win out in her soul. She curses under her breath. _You’re an assistant crime lord_ , she thinks.

She sees Leeza smirk. “I don’t think you’re really a crime lord, dear. Nor him. I’ve seen what you and he have done to relieve the suffering of those impacted by the new way.” She pulls Iris closer to her. “Even those who aren’t claimed as Unwanted.”

Iris rests against the older woman’s shoulder for a moment. “It’s our way,” she whispers, “we both have a lot to atone for.”

Leeza closes her eyes. After a moment, she says, “I know the feeling. But I’m not sure that I’m free. I don’t know if I want to save Melis for herself or poke my finger in Dorith Panteer’s eye.”

“You have a history,” Iris says. It isn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Leeza replies, “from when we were both on Alderaan.” She looks down. “I was on my way to being head of ISB—acting as head. I wasn’t really concerned with the Empire. It was a means to an end—to restore my family.”

“The Antols?”

“Yes. I only had my soldiers left.” She looks away. “Along with my so-called wife, Cantos Lardai.”

Iris feels her eyebrows climb into her hairline. “The Imperial Advisor?”

“Yep,” Leeza replies, “added bonus for this whole thing.”

She looks at Iris, her eyes softening. Leeza’s hand moves over the scars on her wrists, then up to the slight scar around her throat. Iris breathes out at the sensation, as Leeza strokes her skin.

The scars are strangely soothed as Leeza alternates her touch over the front and back—the through and through wounds of her wrists. She remembers Tarranic gently bandaging them, the gentleness belying his bulk, and the fact that she had watched him disintegrate close to a dozen Death Watchers, to save her life.

She hears Leeza take a deep breath. “I’ve been searching for a solution, as well. I don’t have one, but I have some information. Others are seeking Melis—not just Imperials. There is at least one group who wants to help her decide what to do on her own. They want her to be free of what they feel is a type of slavery with the Saxons. But they want her to have her own agency.”

Iris stares at her, then takes her own deep breath.

“Tell me,” is all that she says.

* * *

Fitanzuju Ataro, known as Fitanzujua’taro on his species’ homeworld, but Fit on his new world, manages to think as echoes of light flash in his head. He listens to the nonsense words coming from his lover as he thrusts inside of him. He grins to himself as his eyes fall over the pale skin of Tiber Saxon’s back.

Fit makes sure that he remains focused on the job at hand. He does this by thinking of those who are actual lovers, rather than someone who has information that he needs.

He shakes his head seeing Meglann Florlin’s playful laughter and sparkling eyes as they explored each other, after their freedom had been won. He remembers Bryne Covenant laughing at something that one of them had said. Meglann, his fellow indentured servant for a brief time, had inspired him to risk it all to escape his servitude—slavery in all but name. Bryne Covenant had inspired him with his skill and fortitude in his quest for information on an Imperial base, as well as his care for Meglann.

Both had inspired him to undergo training at Covenant House, an orphanage and school for budding chaos-bringers on Covenant’s world.

He laughs as he thinks of the Director of that school, Dani Faygan, and some of her lessons—in spycraft, as well as certain _softer_ skills. She had also taught him that choice was the watchword of the training academy, even for the orphans who’d shown aptitude for chaos and intelligence gathering—they’d be trained to further those innate skills, but they would, at the end of every stage of their training, be offered the chance to learn a more sedate skill or be placed with a foster family.

There was never any question that Fit would go on to graduate and become a member of what was the de facto intelligence service for Corellia and its brother planets. Just as there would never be a question for Fit that he would use whatever means necessary to serve that world. A world that had given him many things.

He feels Tiber stiffen; he comes back to the present and returns to his even thrusts, while reaching down to caress the Saxon. He does smile at the thought of one of those extras—acting classes with a master of the stage on Corellia.

Fit continues his thoughts of how he would get the information needed from Tiber. The information of who was possibly funding some of the threats to Melis, Tiber’s nominal younger sister. Bryne had suspected that someone might be backing Tiber for an independent run at being the Viceroy, but they needed confirmation. From what Fit could understand, neither Saxon brother would be an optimal choice for Mandalore.

Fit feels his release coming faster, as he relaxes his control. He thinks about the thoughtful looks that Bryne had given whenever he talked about his mother’s world—one he had spent only a bit of time on after the war.

One that had shaped him as much as his youth, the one that he and Fulcrum, nor any of the other members of their little association ever spoke of.

He feels himself release, slowing his movement down, as both men collapse and lie next to one another, their bodies glistening in the low light.

As he catches his breath, Fit sees that Tiber had not released, but was content to lay next to him, kissing Fit’s lekku. Fit takes a deep breath. No one had instructed him to take this route, but Fit knew that with Tiber’s interest, this would be the best route. He closes his eyes for a brief second, rejoicing in the fact that Meglann, Bryne, and the others had shown him that he had this choice, in a world of choices and equality.

“So am I naked in the arms of the next ruler of Mandalore?” he asks, point blank. He feels Tiber stiffen in his arms, suspicion rising his eyes. He reaches down to caress Tiber again, then spends several moments kissing the Mando.

“Sorry, dear,” Fit says, “I’m just interested in politics. Working with the Corellians have given me a taste for them.”

“No bother, Fit,” Tiber replies, relaxing. He feels Tiber grow pensive.

 _Here it comes,_ Fit thinks.

“Are you happy working for the Covenant?” Tiber asks.

Fit smiles against Tiber’s chest. “Depends,” he says, “if someone’s willing to pay me more.”

“Well, there’s a chance that you could work for the next Imperial Viceroy of Mandalore. A certain Imperial scientist with some influence is working to make me the Viceroy, working to defeat my brother Gar and prove to my father that I’m worthy.”

Fit tries not to show too much interest; he climbs on top of Tiber and starts to kiss his chest. He remembers his briefing. _Noar Zan Arbor_ , he recalls, _psychopathic Imperial scientist._ He tongues a nipple as he continues to listen.

“Don’t know who’s backing her, but she’s got a soldier in our ranks, who’s willing to help me snag the girl—she wants to use her to manipulate a former engineer on a Seppie project.”

Fit smiles, but sees Tiber staring at him. He hides it by beginning to quickly move his mouth down Tiber’s body, until he closes his mouth on Tiber’s arousal.

As Tiber starts to moan, Fit looks over and sees that Tiber’s comm has a text. He continues until Tiber’s cries split the night with his orgasm.

 _Of course, he immediately falls asleep,_ Fit thinks, as he gets up.

Fit immediately dresses, taking Tiber’s comm. After a moment, of watching, he lifts Tiber’s hand and uses the thumb to open it.

He sees a message from a minion. His eyes widen as he reads. He breathe out at the message.

 _Gar and backers are moving against the girl at the Imp infantry encampment_ , the text reads.

He sees Tiber’s eyes locked on his in shock. He quickly snatches Tiber’s blaster off of the nightstand, thumbing the selector switch with one hand—one of those other skills that Dani had taught him.

Tiber falls off of the bed at the double-tap of the stun blasts. Fit sends another blast into the inert Mando for good measure.

He passes a jetpack on his run to the street of the small apartment. He shakes his head, stepping out into the street and grabbing the speederbike.

He manages to get it started with Tiber’s comm, then moves out, wobbling only once. _Really needed to pay attention to those lessons from Nola,_ he thinks as he streaks through the early evening.

* * *

Meglann half listens to the conversations around her as she surveys the holomap of the forbidding world known as Kessel. She stares at the map, making sure that she avoids Chardri Tage’s gaze. She brings her eyes up, then feels her skin flush as she notices Ahsoka looking at her, a subdued version of the familiar Smirk on her face. Her eyes track to the side viewport, staring at the black hull with a crimson stripe of the _Opportunity_ , locked together with the _Draq’stone_ , amongst the shifting rocks of an asteroid cluster.

Ahsoka shakes her head, performing an eyeroll before she moves her gaze back to Kessel.

“So this place that they’re moving to,” Dani says, “it’s pretty deep in there. Right on the border with the coaxium mines, but within Hutt territory in the spice mines.”

“Yeah,” Lassa replies, “there’s a lot of methyl-ethyl nasty shit in there. Hope Ardalen is keeping some sort of breath mask or filters on while she’s there.”

Meglann sees that all of their faces have the same look of concern on them as she looks around the room.

“Do we actually have a plan?” Boge M’Faru asks. Murta nods in agreement, his expressive beard twitching.

“Sort of. We’re wondering which safe conduct we should use,” Ahsoka says, finally weighing in. “Jabba’s would be the best; we’re not sure that we should burn bridges with Xizor, yet.”

“I don’t know if we have to worry about that as much,” Dani observes. She rises up from where she’d been leaning forward on the navtable/holotank. She places her fists on her hips. “I think Shyla has a good relationship with him. She’ll be able to cover us,” I think.

Lassa shakes her head. “You’re thinking with your nethers again, Faygan,” she says, her eyes narrowed. “Shyla’s already proven that she’s a little iffy on the program, if it suits her.”

Meglann holds her hand up, as Dani’s skin flushes a deeper crimson. She turns to Rhayme. “I trust Dani. I think we have to trust Shyla, if this whole thing’s going to move forward.” She softens her words by reaching over and kissing first Lassa, then Dani. Dani’s face calms; she nods quickly in gratitude to Meglann.

“I don’t know if it’s necessarily for her own needs. I think she’s a survivor, but she is out there risking it all,” Dani finally says in a quiet voice. Meglann sees Lassa’s face soften.

Ahsoka nods quickly, dropping her arms into a more open stance. “I know, Dani,” she says, her tone even.

Dani looks away. Meglann can see the brief pain on her face. Meglann looks away, knowing that of all of them, Ahsoka is the one who is the most exposed and alone.

Lassa touches Ahsoka’s arm. “I’m aware of her risks. I just want us to be sure we’re not putting all of our stones for the soup in one basket. Shyla is a question mark, since she didn’t seem to know that Geddan still had his side job in slavery on his world, Nar Kanji,” she says.

Meglann reaches out and takes Dani’s hand in hers. She can feel the warmth—a much warmer skin temperature than anyone else in the room. “She has a point, Dani,” she remarks.

For a moment, Meglann thinks that there will be more arguing, which could lead to one of two things. Three, actually. More blasterfire, knives flashing, or Dani and Lassa knocking everything off of the table and going at each other in front of them all.

“I still trust Shyla,” Dani says in a quiet voice.

Meglann thinks that things are going to be calm, but Lassa pushes a bit more. “I gotta know, Faygan—which hole is doing the talking, when it comes to your pet politician?”

Meglann tunes out the incessant argument. She notices that Ahsoka’s eyes are distant as the argument crescendos. Meglann moves closer to her, shoving the thoughts of Shyla being alone, trying to find a collection of scumbags—other players in the nebulous underworld that might have contacts with Panteer.

She turns back to the others, as the nonsense seems to have abated without bloodshed. “I think that the best thing we can do is have our favorite crime lord of the incredible ass go down and throw her weight around—with her pet muscle standing next to her—the noted mercenary Jana Roshti.” She notices that Ahsoka still isn’t fully back from her thoughts.

Lassa looks at Dani and grins. “I think that’s probably the best option, next to firebombing a semi-Imperial installation from orbit.”

Dani nods after a moment. “The only danger is that we’ll alienate Xizor and burn some bridges, since we’re kinda vague on how far he wanted us to go—especially since we don’t have Shyla here to finesse this stuff.” She turns and looks at Ahsoka, about to ask a question. She stops as she sees what Meglann had seen earlier.

Lassa sees it as well. Meglann looks at the others in the compartment, Lassa’s crew and hers. “Clear the bridge,” she says in her best imitation Captain voice. After a second, Thyla, Adis, Boge, and Murta turn and start to file out.

Chardri Tage lingers for a moment, staring at Ahsoka with narrowed eyes. He opens his mouth to speak. Meglann walks up to him, dwarfed by his bulk, even though she considers herself fairly tall. She plants her feet on the deck as she’s seen a certain Covenant do. Slowly, deliberately, she jerks her head to the hatch. He smirks at her, given her a look of promise as he turns and leaves.

She turns back to Ahsoka, as do Lassa and Dani. She recognizes the expression on Ahsoka’s face. One that she looks on with a full heart. Usually, the expression is accompanied with a slight, soft smile.

A smile as she somehow communes with another of their loves, in the mystical bond that they’ve shared for over two decades. A bond that none of the others fully understand. _Well, maybe they don’t understand either_ , Meglann thinks.

They just bask in it with both of them. Meglann knows that Bryne’s link to that bond is tenuous at best; they both seem to be able to snatch moments together in this struggle against darkness.

There is no accompanying smile this time. Only worry.

Ahsoka comes back to them. Her mouth is a straight line, her eyes still distant.

“I don’t think that Jana should go down there,” she says.

“Why?” Lassa and Dani ask in stereo.

“I’m sensing something on the surface. Someone.”

Meglann, Dani, and Lassa all crowd in closer, touching her shoulder and face.

“A Jedi?” Dani whispers into her lekku.

Meglann feels her eyes widen. “Could it be one of those Force users we faced on Felucia?”

After a moment, Ahsoka gives her head a quick shake. “No. I don’t think so. They were pretty distinctive in their darkness. I can’t tell if this is light or dark.

“It feels...rusty. Unused.”

They all digest this as they pull in even closer.

* * *

Bryne jerks awake as he hears a pounding on the door to the apartment. Delilah snaps up from lying on his lap; her sudden movement causes the datapad to clatter to the floor. They look at one another and move their hands to the weapons holstered on the endtable of the couch.

Talle looks out from the bedroom, where Bryne had carried her. He motions her back into the room. She rolls her eyes, but obeys.

Delilah smirks at him. “That’s what you get for volunteering to babysit while Drop bonded with Tarranic.”

Bryne scoops the datapad up and activates the door viewer. They relax as they see Fit and Tamsin.

The door snaps open at a touch of button. Fit rushes in, followed at a more sedate pace by Tamsin. Before he can close the door, Tarranic, Leeza, and Drop slide in.

Tarranic is in his beskargam, his helmet with its black stripe over the left eye, recalling his eyepatch in place. He removes it and places it on the table. His face is calm, but lights up as he sees Talle run from the bedroom and leap into her father’s arms.

“Is anyone else going to parade in?” Bryne asks acerbically.

“Were you hoping for some privacy?” Tamsin asks with her own bite in her voice, staring at Delilah.

“Why, are you jealous you were left out, Captain?” Delilah asks.

“No. I was doing something more interesting. Reorganizing my underwear drawer,” comes the quick reply.

“You wear underwear?” Delilah snarks.

Drop chuffs at the byplay and goes to cover Talle’s ears. She moves out of his grasp before he can and wriggles to safety in Tarranic’s arms. She smirks in triumph at her father, but blows him a kiss.

Bryne turns back to Fit. “You were leading, bud. What’s going on?”

“Got some info from Tiber. Gar was heading to the Imperial camp to snatch Melis.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Tarranic says, “Iris is headed to the restaurant to get a muster together. There’s been blasterfire at the camp.”

Bryne looks at Delilah, who goes into the next room. “So what’s Tiber’s play in this? He backing his big dumb brother?” he asks Fit.

“No. He mentioned that he’s been in contact with Noar Zan Arbor—or at least a crazy-ass Imp scientist. Hopefully there’s not more than one.”

“Oh, there are many more, sweetie,” Leeza says, “what did he say her motivation was?”

“Wants to get Melis to manipulate a former Separatist engineer. That’s why I figured Zan Arbor, after Dani’s briefing.”

Bryne smirks. “You do pay attention in class,” he says.

Delilah comes back into the room, her face grim. “Just got a comm from Madine. Saxon and a couple of his soldiers got onto the base with a writ from Cantos Lardai. They managed to seriously wound Yelena and make off with Melis.” She holds up her hand. “Yelena’s under care. Madine’s looking out for her personally.”

Bryne nods, his eyes serious.

“So he’s in cahoots with the Imperial Advisor? Who’s she working for?”

Tarranic looks up from having a finger war with Talle—and losing. “I’m not sure. She was playing around with the Antols, right, Leeza?”

Leeza nods. “Yeah. She said something as she gutted me with that damned knife about her father being the true Antol’lich. Not my father. I thought it was a load of poodoo as I lay bleeding out. But I think she’s been loyal to the Empire, except for forays for Jabba.”

“According to my sources, Ming has a bounty puck on herself from Jabba. I’ve got somebody following up on that,” Bryne says, “someone who might have a personal interest.”

“You sent Nola after a stone-cold killer?” Drop asks incredulously.

“Not alone, Drop. But I think she’d be able to handle herself,” Bryne says.

“Never doubted it, vod,” Drop replies with a glance of pride at Talle, “but Ming’s a different level altogether.

“I know. I contracted someone who’ll give her the edge. Someone who might be interested in taking over Lardai’s job. Plus he’s watched Nola’s back before.”

“Boba,” Drop says in a hard tone.

Tarranic stands up, startling Talle. He smiles at her and ruffles her hair, then turns to the others. “Jango’s whelp? I thought he was looking to cut your balls off, boy,” he says, looking at Bryne.

“Use your words, Grandpappy,” Bryne warns. “We’ve had this discussion before. My name’s not ‘boy’.”

“Okay, sport,” Drop and Tarranic say in tandem. Bryne rolls his eyes, then turns to Leeza.

She returns his gaze calmly.

“What’s your play in this?”

“Don’t have one. I’m all in for the Unwanted,” she replies. They stare at one another. Finally, she relents. “I’ve an in with someone who is interested. I’m not sure why, but they have a connection to Dorith. She’s controlled by a naval officer.”

Bryne starts with recognition. “Edan Kozume,” he says, “she’s another that might have value to us, since she worked on Project Xerus.”

Leeza shakes her head. “I don’t care. Another party has taken an interest in freeing her. Her masters have some—devices in her.” She looks down at the glow in her chest. “I know a little bit about having a knife in your vitals, waiting on it to go in.”

“And this other party?” Tarranic asks.

“They might be able to glean some more about who is backing who. Including the naval angle.”

Bryne nods. “I know the ‘naval angle’. I think they’re both psychopaths. I was exposed to their humor. They nearly executed Ensign Kozume and would’ve killed Nola and me with out breaking a sweat.” He turns and takes them all in.

“Fit and I are going to Madine’s camp,” he says, “to look after Yelena. I owe it to Meglann and Yosta.”

“I’ll go with you,” Drop says.

Bryne shakes his head. “Nope. Need you to go with the old man, to make sure his diapers get changed.” Both sets of similar features give him an almost identical dark look in his direction..

Leeza gives a full laugh—something Bryne had never heard from her.

Drop looks at Tarranic. “I guess we should humor him,”he says, “you know how whiny these Corellians get.”

“Yeah, bub. Got some experience with that,” Tarranic replies. He looks at Bryne. For the first time ever, Bryne sees something in his single eye.

Warmth. Maybe even love.

He turns to Delilah. “You got some pull to get us in without having to show our ass?”

She grins. “It’s what I live for, covering your adorable asses.” Her look grows hard. “I’m going to go see Cantos Lardai,” she says, “it could get loud.” She turns and leaves the room.

Bryne turns to Tamsin. “We might need some air support, Tams, but I think the _Hope_ might be too noticeable.”

“Yeah. But we’ll need something more than a jetpack,” she replies. She turns to Talle. “You think I could borrow the _Purring Tooka_ , sweetie?”

“Nope,” Talle replies quickly, “but you can ride with me and handle the guns.”

Bryne sees Drop look at her with misting eyes—eyes filled with pride, once again.

Tarranic reaches down and kisses Talle on her forehead. She gives him her bright smile.

“I’ll make sure that your buir is safe, ad’ika.”

Bryne looks at him. “See that you do, old man,” he says, “both of you look after each other.”

Leeza smiles at him. “I’ll take care, too, your Eminence.”

* * *

Nola Vorserrie tightens the laces of the fur-lined mantle as she stares out of the port of the _Slave-1_. Several weeks on the trail of the elusive Ming Lardai and Boba had finally gotten a more solid lead.

 _Good_ , she thinks, _let’s get on with it_. She turns to walk out of the ship that she’d spent those several weeks in. She stops as she realizes that Boba is staring at her from behind his bucket.

“You sure you’re doing this for the right reason, Nola?” he asks.

Nola stops and closes her eyes. She hears the same words in the familiar high clear voice of Ahsoka Tano, as she was packing to meet Bryne’s ‘specialist.’

“What makes you think I’m not, sis?” she’d asked. Ahsoka had said nothing, merely reached over and placed her hand inside Nola’s shirt, against the almost faded scar of the through-and-through blaster wound. Her other hand traveled downward, lifting the left hand in its protective glove.

Nola shook her head. “No, love,” she says, “I’m not seeking revenge. I want justice—justice for Ardalen and Melis. I’m just going about it a different way than you are. So that I make sure of it.”

She’d felt the cool skin of Ahsoka’s face against hers, just before she left. Nola still hadn’t given a satisfactory answer to Ahsoka’s, and now Boba’s question.

Nor her own.

She lifts the heavier SE-5 blaster, with its attached ascension gun and places it in the holster on her hip. She feels the comforting weight of her familiar Handmaiden’s blaster at her back, as well as the more compact blaster on her right ankle. She makes sure that her right hand remains in the open pocket of the mantle. She smiles to Boba and says nothing.

The cold wind and snow pelts her face as they move though the rough streets of Fort Ypso. Boba’s informant had told them that Lardai had been laying low on several worlds—just ahead of them apparently, to wait out the storms that had precluded normal travel to Kessel.

Nola remembers the informant drawing Boba’s own vibroknife and shoving it towards a vulnerable joint on his armor.

It had never reached him. Boba had nodded at her over her smoking blaster.

“Guess I owe you again, Vorserrie,” he’d said. He’d turned and walked away. “We’re going to Vandor. It’s the easiest starting point. For Kessel, now that the shitstorm has subsided.”

Which is how they’d found themselves in the old watering hole.

Seated apart from one another. An easy silence between them on the secure comm.

They’d already caught up over the last several weeks. Which meant that she’d talked about her new life, about missing her life on Alderaan, but content with her new one.

She’d learned nothing of his. She smiles. It’s as it should be.

The door opens. She stares at the familiar figure framed.

“Hello, girl,” says Ming Lardai, “heard you were looking for me. You want to have another dance? Without your friends?” She motions at the bar at large.

Nola watches as the crowd stands and faces her. All of them drawing weapons of one kind or another.

She hears Boba in her ear, just as her blaster bolt tears through her cloak, striking Lardai in her now-armored chest.

“Fuck,” he says.


	14. Will The Circle Be Unbroken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos begins on Mandalore; the chaos continues on Kessel.

Madine is on his knees next to the young woman, holding her hand as the platoon medic and a meddroid work to establish baselines. He’d already texted Delilah Sal with a quick report on Yelena Dao.

He’d arrived just in time to see several Mandos lifting off on their jetpacks, one of them with a slumped figure in his arms. His troopers had lifted their blasters, he’d stood them down. The trooper next to him had lifted a pair of macrobinoculars to his eyes. 

“It’s Corporal Nath,” she said, confirming Madine’s own thoughts. 

The four gate guards run up to him; they all blanch as his eyes fall on them. He says nothing as he rises from Tetarch Dao’s side. The senior guard looks down, then at her fellows, who take a step back from her. 

“They had an authorization, signed by the Imperial Advisor, sir,” she says. Madine narrows his eyes at her. He can see the fear in her eyes above the mask. “They said they were looking for some of their property.”

He continues to stare at her. He can see the soldier’s breathing increase as she considers her fate. Based on other Imperial officers’ behaviors, the NCO is waiting for the blaster bolt from him. He continues to look hard at her. “They may have had an authorization, Sergeant,” he says, “but you still should’ve notified the officer of the day at headquarters. Now one of our own is missing.”

He never raises his voice, but even he can feel the hardness in his words. But he can also see something besides fear and self-preservation in the guard’s eyes. Concern for another. He breathes out, then gives a miniscule nod.

Still.

“You’re demoted to trooper, Sergeant,” he says. He turns away before he can see her reaction. He hears a relieved exhalation as he focuses on the medic. He returns to his knees. 

“She was hit twice, Major,” the medic says, “one, a through-and-through blaster wound in the shoulder. The other is more serious. Some sort of slugthrower projectile hit her in the head. It appears to have skimmed over her skull, just under the skin. Lot of blood, and she got her bell rung.” He looks at the meddroid, who is spraying a substance on the girl—no, the young woman’s head. “She needs a full bacta immersion, but there’s a priority for Imperial regulars,” the medic finishes. 

Once again, Madine feels his eyes narrow at a subordinate. “Tell me, Jerrin,” he says quietly, “do you see any Imperial regular casualties around?”

The medic’s eyes widen, then close. “No sir,” he replies, “she’ll be in there in a few minutes. The stretcher droid is on its way.”

“Good man. How do we expect to attract good local officers if we don’t take care of them?” he adds.

Another gate guard runs up. “Sir, there’s a tailhead demanding entrance at the gate. He’s on a speederbike, registered to the Saxons. He’s quite insistent. Also, there’s a Mando in armor coming up on another jetpack. He seems to be carrying an Imperial officer in his arms. Looks like an ISB officer in field gear.”

Madine grins for a half-second, despite the seriousness of the situation. “Let them all pass.”

It doesn’t take long before Fit stands over Yelena, his eyes concerned at her still face. 

“She’s okay, lad. We’re taking care of her,” Madine says gently.

“Why the hell didn’t you take care of her before?” comes a modulated voice. He turns to the Mando, recognizing the voice. Delilah Sal walks up next to Covenant. 

In spite of himself, he lets his anger rise. “Didn’t know I reported to you, Major,” he spits out.

Covenant pulls the helmet from his head, his green eyes flashing. Idly, Madine wonders where the hell he had found a Republic commando officer’s helmet. 

“You do report to me, right now,” Delilah Sal says, staring at him from underneath her own oddly shaped ISB helmet. Madine starts to object, but thinks better of it. 

“They had an authorization, Colonel,” he says quietly, “signed by the Imperial Advisor on Mandalore.” His eyes harden.”Someone who is actually in my chain of command,” he adds.

Delilah’s dark eyes flash, but she nods. “I think someone needs to talk to that person in your chain of command,” she says.

Bryne is staring at Yelena as the stretcher droid starts to move out. He turns to Fit. “Fit, go with her. Make sure she comes out of any medical treatment,” he says. 

Madine feels his lip curl. “You don’t trust my people?” he asks, keeping his voice even. 

Covenant looks sharply at him, then takes a deep breath. “I don’t trust the system,” he says. 

Madine has nothing to say to that. He motions to one of his junior officers. He draws the officer’s blaster from his belt and without a word, hands it to Fit. He turns back to Covenant, who, after a moment, nods. 

Madine is handed a datapad by a comm/tech. He curses under his breath, then looks up at them. “Lardai has ordered me to stand down. We’re confined to the base.”

“See what I mean?” Covenant says angrily. Delilah places her hand on the chest of his armor. They stare at each other, Covenant with defiance, Delilah with understanding.

After a moment, he nods. He turns away. 

Delilah looks at Madine, then smiles. “Make sure you’re standing by, Major. I’m going to see Lardai. May make some calls. She’s not exactly got a lot of support in ISB, since she’s a navy puke. There’s also that whole thing about her mother being a Hutt soldier.”

Madine nods. “Got a couple of scout walkers already on stand-to. I’ll get some transports as well.” He looks at Covenant. “What’re you going to do?”

Covenant turns and smiles—an expression with a certain amount of deviousness. “I’m going to a family reunion. At the Saxon compound.”

Madine nods. “My orders were kind of specific. They actually said not to interfere with Gar Saxon. Didn’t say anything about not keeping Tiber occupied.”

Covenant nods, then puts his helmet on. “Be careful. According to what Fit found out when he was working him, Noar Zan Arbor seems to be backing him. She’s batshit crazy, as the head-shrinkers say, and she wants Melis for some leverage with her birth mother.”

Madine shakes his head. “This whole thing is a bit much. Just for a skinny teenager.” He can feel the smirk behind Covenant’s helmet. 

“Welcome to my world, bud,” he says as he slowly rises.

* * *

Shyla watches through the glare shields of the unfamiliar flight helmet as the streaks of stars slow and return to their pinpricks. She breathes out; the astromech that Dani had loaned her beeps. She smiles as she remembers the origin story of the picky little droid with faded red and green livery.

A beep sounds. 

“I know, Arseven,” she says into the pickup, after reading the translation. “Thanks for getting me here. My flight skills are limited to airspeeder flights.”

+”You sound like Snips’s friend—the tall one. Everybody says that Stretch shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near controls over three hundred meters AGL,”+ the screen reads.

“I agree,” Shyla replies, “unless she’s got an expert like you behind her.”

She smiles again at the pleased ‘boop’ coming over the pickup.

A shape flashes into her vision. She stares at the arrowhead configuration of an T-1 shuttle—a ship slowly moving towards and over her battered Y-wing single-seater. 

She nods at the livery—the livery currently under the authority of Dorith Panteer.

The Sovereign Yard-World of Fondor.

She removes her helmet, shaking out her short cropped hair, as Arseven pilots the fighter under the shuttle to a small hatch and tunnel moving down to cover the cockpit. 

A few steps up a ladder and she stands in the shuttle lounge. A Zeltron woman sits on a couch next to a table, a large, muscular young male of the same species, but with different colored skin standing next to her, his arms crossed. The woman looks up and at him, then at his posture. He starts and relaxes his posture and expression. 

Shyla bows to them both, then walks over and crouches down at the woman’s feet, taking both hands in her own. “My lady Mother-Protector,” she says, bowing her head.

Irnalyn Zabrin smiles, then reaches down and kisses her on the forehead, pulling her up to sit on the couch next to her. She indicates the young man. “My son, Herjen. Herjen, Shyla Merricope, once the Diktat of Corellia.”

Shyla sees his eyes narrow as he dips his head. She catches the quick shake of the head that Irnalyn gives. 

“Hello, your Excellency,” he says after a moment.

Shyla nods, then turns to face them both. 

“Kanjiklub welcomes you,” Irnalyn says. 

“I’m surprised that you do,” Shyla replies, her gaze even.

Irnalyn nods, but paints a careful smile on her beautiful features. “I know. A lot of people were fooled by Geddan. He wasn’t known as a slavemaster to the general public.” She looks away. “Only his slaves and partners knew.

“Plus what you’ve done—both as Diktat, and as a dead woman, gives us hope for the future,” Irnalyn says.

“Well said,” another voice says.

Shyla rises and walks towards the two women walking out of the cockpit. She falls easily into the arms of the older of the two, a woman with graying brown hair over a mostly shaven skull.

Her multicolored, fluctuating eyes fall on Shyla. Yosta Aspeff, Mater-Comptroller of the Dao-Aspeff Yard and grandmother to its new YardMistress smiles. She turns to the other woman.

Shyla nods at her Grace, Camille Panteer. She smiles at a young girl—no older than five—who holds on to Camille’s skirt.

“You’ve done good service that has helped our world,” Yosta says as she limps over to the other couch. “As Irnalyn said, I think that your ledger is clear.”

“Have you heard any more about how Yelena is doing?” Shyla asks. 

“Initial reports are that the wounds look more serious than they are, but we haven’t heard for sure. I trust those who are watching her back, implicitly,” Yosta says. 

_So do I_ , Shyla thinks. Dani’s face, as well as those as her partners-in-light—both known and unknown—flashes in succession in her mind.

“Thank you for meeting us,” Camille says. She pulls the young girl into her lap as she sits on the smaller couch.

“I’m here,” Shyla says, “but I’m wondering why. I’ve been working on something for a couple of families who are dear to me.”

Irnalyn pulls her closer. With the agelessness of Zeltrons, Shyla is unable to tell if Irnalyn is older or younger than Shyla’s own late forties. A dagger stabs in her heart as she realizes once again that she’d never live long enough to see Dani Faygan in her prime. She shakes the thought away. 

“We have something that might help both of those families, love,” Irnalyn says, “as well as all of our own.”

“I’m listening,” Shyla says. 

Camille Panteer speaks up. “I have some information on Uncle Dorith,” she says quietly. “Information, that if brought to light, could be enough at least for Imperial Center, if not for the Emperor.”

“Especially for the Grand Moff of the Core systems,” Yosta says.

“Why Isard?” Shyla asks. “It seems like to me that he doesn’t have too many cares as to how worlds are run in his territory. He’s too concerned with Security and Intelligence—his main job.”

Irnalyn moves back into the conversation. “Not so much him, but some who whisper into his ear. There is some stability there, but also some sense of right and wrong.”

“Yularen,” Shyla breathes. She purses her lips. “He may be an honorable man, but he is loyal to the Empire, just as he was to the Republic.”

“I know, but he does have morals. Especially something that seems to be a moral issue on many worlds,” Camille says.

“Most,” Irnalyn replies with a soft smile, “within limits.”

Shyla is about to ask, but something catches her eyes. She looks at the young girl in Camille’s lap. She breathes out as she sees the child’s eyes lock on hers. 

Eyes of piercing blue. She turns her gaze up to the girl’s mother. 

Camille nods briefly, but says nothing.

Irnalyn is smiling at her again. 

“What?” Shyla asks. 

“I may have a way for you to come back into the land of the living, dear,” Irnalyn says. 

Shyla’s heart twists at those words. “It may take some faith on your part. How’d you like to be full business partner of a crime syndicate? One that will be joining with Malaky’s new organization, now that he’s apparently burned bridges with Xizor.”

Shyla remains quiet. 

“I’m looking forward to a closer relationship with you, dear,” Irnalyn adds. 

Shyla is unable to tell if there’s more to that statement than meets the eye, given Irnalyn’s heritage.

“But we have another that will be working with us, to end the slavery of the Empire,” Irnalyn whispers, so that only Shyla can hear. 

“A fellow Corellian.”

* * *

The light flashes in her brain. She can hear someone—a male that she feels like she should know, arguing with someone else. She can’t make out the words, only the loudness of them, with the more sedate responses from whoever the supposedly familiar male is arguing with. 

She tries to move, but quickly realizes her mistake. She can actually think of herself as a ‘she’; her mind tells her that is progress. Fire lances up and down her nervous system as she makes that move. A word flashes in her mind—a name. Melis.

More progress. She focuses on the words being said; the responses from the one she doesn’t know getting louder.

Her memories flood back through the chaos that is her mind. Pictures rather than words. A young woman, not quite fully human, her multicolored eyes flashing with laughter under her mostly-shaven skull and a fountaining tuft of silver hair. 

The same young woman lying in a pool of purple-hued blood, her eyes closing, just as everything in Melis’s vision goes dark. 

Melis grits her teeth and sits up—a move that doesn’t prove to be as much of a mistake with each passing second. She stares at her older brother, Gar, as he argues with a younger, slighter male, dressed in nondescript armor, a forgettable helmet hooked to his belt. She realizes that her hands are bound in front of her with some type of liqui-cable, most probably courtesy of Gar’s vambrace. She focuses her mind on the actual words being said. 

“My benefactor is willing to back any Saxon who will give her the girl. I haven’t been able to reach Tiber, so you might be it, Gar,” the younger man says. 

“You can tell Lardai that if she wants to remain as the Imperial advisor for Mandalore, she might better be thinking about backing the strongest, not my puling little brother, Adede,” Gar says in his deep, nearly rasping voice.

 _Okay_ , Melis thinks, _his name is Adede. Good to know._

She’s not quite sure why that’s good to know. She calls up a memory from longer than this morning. This young man’s eyes following her, tracking her, after she comes in for breakfast while on leave. She shakes her head and tunes in again.

“I don’t actually work for that idiot Lardai. She’s a puppet of the Hutts. I work for someone more powerful that a mere naval lackey. I work for Noar Zan Arbor. She’s wants the girl so that she can manipulate someone else.”

“Good to know,” says another voice—the voice of a diminutive woman in an Imperial naval uniform says, as she walks in. Melis can see her muscular arms even through the gaberwool of the uniform. “I always thought you were playing a couple of sides, Mal,” she says to the young man. “I just thought that you were Yularen’s creature.”

Melis rolls her eyes, as she tries to figure out the players. The strategizing is made more difficult by the addition of Tiber Saxon and the old man, coming from separate directions. 

Jak surveys the increasing crowd with narrowed eyes. A woman in her late twenties or early thirties with slicked back brown hair and gray-blue eyes surveys them with amusement. She is clad in something that recalls standard stormtrooper armor, but of a more expensive cut. A Mando buy’ce rests under one arm. 

“I knew that my whelps were playing their own games,” Jak says, fixing his hard gaze on the whelps in question. I really should be more careful with my seed in the future,” he says. Melis sees him raise his hand to his face, as if to cough, but stopping—thinking better of showing any weakness in this crowd.

“So who are you backing, buir?” Gar asks. “I have the backing of an Imperial moff—one who is the father of this girl. He really wants her by his side.

Melis stands up, managing not to empty her stomach on Gar’s armor. “Would somebody please actually talk to me, rather than around me?” she manages to say.

All of them turn and look at her. Just as quickly, they turn back to their conversation. All except Jak, who looks at her with shrewd, if rheumy eyes. He smiles. “I don’t back either one of you,” he says. He starts to walk over to Melis. “I actually back Melis as the new Imperial viceroy. She has much more common sense than either of you, as well as these other minions put together.” He looks at the woman who accompanied him. “This is Commander Pem Bouva. She and her Captain are of a like mind with me.”

“I don’t care who she is,” Gar shouts, “she has no business being involved. Do you honestly think this chit of a girl could rule Mandalore? You’re more senile than I thought, old man,” he finishes. 

Jak smiles. “You’d be surprised. The Queens of Naboo are all young women—some younger than this one. A talented young woman with the right guidance could move worlds.”

“I guess you’d be the ‘right guidance’?” Tiber sneers. 

He doesn’t get a chance to answer as Mal Adede draws his blaster and fires into Jak’s unarmored chest. The old man drops like a stone, as more armored figures move into the large dining room. 

Melis is about to duck as bolts start to fly in several direction. She feels a warm hand on her arm, then starts as a vibroblade moves into her vision. A woman in her thirties holds her arm gently, her dark eyes under close-cropped dark hair looking over her. 

The armored woman holding a vibro blade, her face concealed under a hood and mask rather than a helmet, slices through Melis’s binds. She starts to push against them both, struggling, but the woman lifts her hand and places it on her cheek, just as more soldiers—on which side, she can’t tell, enter the room and start blasting. 

“I know you have no reason to trust me, but Tarranic sent me. You know that name, right?”

Melis nods numbly, smiling in spite of herself, remembering picnics in a small park. An old man with a fierce visage, but a single kind eye. 

One who’d never wanted anything from her, that she could tell.

She’s not sure of anything anymore. 

“Do you trust me?” the woman asks. “My name is Leeza.” Melis starts to run as the woman and her escort gently pull her towards the door. Everyone else in the room is too occupied with killing each other. She notices that Gar and Tiber seem to be focusing their fire on Mal Adede and his troops. 

Melis can hear blasterfire from outside as well. “Friends of ours,” Leeza says. She looks at the other woman. The woman drops her mask for a moment, her black eyes gazing at Melis. The woman is maybe a couple of years older than Melis, but those black eyes reflect a great deal of pain. She runs her hand through her hair, then says to Melis. “I hope your skinny ass is worth it, girl, I’m taking a risk of my head and spine exploding, from two different assholes that seem to want you.”

Leeza smiles, then places her hand on the woman’s cheek, as well as Melis’s. “Peace, Edan. The Mother-Protector says she wants both of you to be free.

As they start to run out into the compound, Melis focuses on Leeza’s words. 

_Okay, who the hell is the Mother-Protector? Am I trading one form of slavery over another?_

* * *

Drop makes sure his grip is tight as he stands on the running board of Tarranic’s old luxury landspeeder. He stares at the Unwanted soldier standing across from him, then pulls back to look down into the vehicle. Iris stares back at him from the controls, then very slowly raises her hand and then the hand’s middle finger in an age-old Mando gesture. 

He grins at her, sticking his tongue out. Drop realizes that Tarranic, standing next to him on the running board is watching him. Vheh’yaim pulls his helmet off. Drop’s heart twists as he sees the ashen face. His progenitor looks older than Drop has ever seen him. Drop moves his hand over to Tarranic’s shoulders and tightens his grip on the old man. 

“I think I might be done after this one, ad’ika,” Tarranic says. Drop raises his eyebrow. No one had ever referred to him as a ‘little child’, before. 

“Why’s that?” Drop asks. “You seem to be making it pretty well.”

“Well, after ninety-five years, I think I might deserve a rest,” Tarranic replies. 

“What the hell?” Drop starts. Something suddenly clicks into place in his mind, something that had been present since he’d first looked in a mirror next to one of his brothers. “That’s why I’m not a Fett clone,” he finishes. 

“Maybe. I’ve always been younger looking.”

Drop looks off into the distance. He then looks above him at the small tri-winged gunship. The ship banks, allowing him to catch a glimpse of his daughter, who is gazing at him steadily. The product of a diabolical experiment—just like he and his brothers—but one that is unique. Unique because she is his daughter, as well as the daughter of Elle Jaquindo. A Jedi who had claimed his heart, before disappearing in the maelstrom. 

“I guess that the longnecks wanted to see if they needed any longer living troopers,” he muses. He grins, looking at Tarranic again. “Got more than they bargained for,” they say together.

“Never been one that could be governed. Even less than Jango.” He looks down. “It might just be time to pay the piper, though.”

“Why?” Drop asks. 

“Managed to get some sort of brain disease in the last few years. Had to have a couple of surgeries. He rubs his left eye, then pops it from his head. “The last one took the real one of this.” He pops it back in. “There’s something to be said for the old Mando Creed—about never taking your bucket off.”

“That’s coming back in vogue, in some places,” Drop observes. “So how did I come about?” he finally asks. 

Tarranic is silent for a moment. “I used to run with Jango. Me and my closest friend—Jetto Wasasblim. We were both foundlings. About twenty years or so ago, Jango became more distant, then finally dropped off of the face of the universe.”

Drop names a year. Tarranic nods. 

“That was when I was uncorked,” Drop says, “along with the other Nulls. I was the last.”

“I didn’t know, but I was sure that Jango took some of my blood, the last time we met.”

Drop and Tarranic look up as they start to hear and blasterfire as they approach the Saxon compound. The landspeeder slows, then slides to a stop. Tarranic drops his helmet over his face. He stumbles when he dismounts, but waves off Drop’s concern. He pulls his odd shaped pistol, and pulls the charging lever back slightly, then spins the cylindrical magazine.

They start to move towards the building; they can see Saxon soldiers and others feeding into the rear of the house. Their eyes lock on three figures moving out of the front. They and the remaining Unwanteds—all twelve of them—plus Iris, head towards them. 

Drop smiles as he sees Melis’s familiar figure, holding a blaster. 

He realizes that Tarranic is not at his side. The old man has slowed and is lagging behind. Leeza Antol heads towards him, alone with Melis. Drop looks at the unknown Mando, with only a mask and hood rather than a buy’ce. He catches a glimpse of dark eyes and a mop of short black hair. Only a glimpse, before she turns to face their rear, her Imperial style carbine at the ready. 

Drop smiles as he sees Melis fall into Tarranic’s arms. He runs his hands over her head and back—her arms, checking for injuries.

“I wish I could come home to you,” Melis says as Drop moves up to cover them both.

“I know, love,” Tarranic replies, his breathing suddenly heavy, “but you need to meet your mother first. She had the hardest job, giving you up to save you.” He looks down. Drop can see his eye glistening with tears. “I only wish I hadn’t failed her.”

Tarranic slides to the ground. He looks at Drop. “Save my Unwanteds. Get them out of here. I think you can use them, you and that grandson of mine—maybe even my boy will find purpose in changing the universe.” He snorts, the devilish grin—a much younger expression appears on his face. “Damned do-gooders.” He looks away again. “Wish I could’ve seen the man that you’d become. That you have.”

Drop shakes his head. “Save that sentiment for your grandson and son. Bryne turned out pretty good. He’s my closest vod.” It is his turn to look away with emotion. “He saved me and my brothers on many occasions.”

“I think you saved him,” Tarranic says. “Don’t worry bud. I got enough love and pride to go around.”

A blaster bolt scorches the wall near them. They look up at several soldiers on jetpacks approaching. 

Just before they disintegrate from the fire of the hovering gunship. A gunship piloted by his heart—his reason for existing; its guns controlled by another connection to Jango Fett.

“Go, boy,” Tarranic says, “they need you.” He turns to Melis, Leeza, and the unknown woman. “Get out into the garden. We’ll cover you.” Melis and Leeza both give him a kiss as they obey.

As Drop moves out, he sees several unknown soldiers moving towards them from the flank. As he turns to engage them, he is attacked from his front by Saxon soldiers.

He hears a scream, just as he opens up.

* * *

Ardalen Nath rests for a moment, her back against the wall of the cave. She looks at her companions, can see that they’re as exhausted and filthy as she is. 

They have been running for weeks, it seems—or it may actually have been weeks; she isn’t sure. They are running low on everything, but at least they are closer to the surface. She wonders once again, where the hell they are going. 

The Pykes had been following them, shadowing them, with probing attacks once in a great while. At least for she and her group. 

Ardalen looks at Malaky, who fidgets, his mind elsewhere. Kal and Kruvure both maintain a watch, if they are fatigued, they make a good show of concealing it. 

Kal looks at her, his eyes calm. “I don’t think that we need to try to get to the landing area again,” he says, “it seems like they hit us harder when we turn to feint.”

Ardalen nods. “Yeah. They don’t want us to get too close. Something must be brewing.” She touches his arm. “Jetto seems to have all of his attention on us.”

He looks away. “Yeah. He might be fixating on me. Whatever’s in control might be feeding it—reinforcing that I’m the one that who was responsible for him being enslaved.”

“What makes you think that, Kal?” Malaky asks. 

“Just a feeling. He looked like he recognized me. Like he was himself,” Kal replies.

Gral holds up the holocomm. “Time for the check in. Our turn to call,” he says. 

Soma Jess’s features come up as the connection is made. “We’re good. No attack since the last check-in this morning.”

“They’re showing us all the love,” Ardalen replies. The holocomm expand, showing all three. Chi Hern looks at them with narrowed eyes. “We need to figure out how to get to where we’re going, faster. We’re out of supplies.”

They all turn to Malaky. “Point taken. We’re all close. I also think we’re getting some backup. They’re definitely not wanting us back at the main landing area.”

“So what’s this super-secret lair that you’re leading us to?” Sorentin asks. “We’ve traveling all over creation for it with no idea where we’re headed.”

“I’ll get you there,” Malaky says calmly. His image turns to Kal Skirata. “So is there anything we can exploit on your connection with our chief tormentor?” 

Soma shakes her head before Kal can answer. “I don’t think so. I don’t think he recognizes you, Kal. I’ve seen that box before. He’s totally enthralled to whoever has that control fob.”

“Why is he just with the thugs that attack Kal’s group?” Rhayme asks. “Not that I’m complaining,” he adds. 

“He might be locked on Kal as a memory, but he probably doesn’t know what’s driving it.” She takes a small sip of water. “I’m wondering if this is a long-term control lock; if he’ll ever be free, even with the box removed.”

They are quiet for several moments. Ardalen looks at Soma. “So what do you think about your feelings, Soma? The ones that you talked about, the ones from your former life,” she asks. 

Soma smiles, then looks at all of them. “I think we can talk about what my former life is. At least one of us knows what it was; I’m sure you’ve figured it out.

“I was a Jedi. Of the Green Temple of Corellia. There weren’t many of us left, and I was the youngest. The Curator sent me on a mission when the war started.”

“What are you doing in the Republic? On Kessel?” Kal asks. 

“I felt like we were wrong to stay out of the conflict. I attached myself to a regional militia, one that wasn’t too particular. After a while, I felt like I made a mistake. I decided to come to Kessel and work among the prisoners.” She looks down, a tear from her pale blue eyes showing on her cheek. “I submerged when the Empire was born and the Jedi were slaughtered.”

Kal suddenly clutches his head. Ardalen moves next to him, crouching over him, pulling him close. “What’s wrong?” she asks. 

He looks at the holo of Soma Jess. There is something in his eyes. 

Like something is just out of reach in his mind. He puts his hand over hers, on his shoulder. “I’m okay. Just kinda tired.”

Ardalen nods. She deactivates the comm. “So maybe some help is on its way,” she says quietly. She takes a deep breath. “I was a Separatist. Like Soma I figured I made a mistake. My mother helped me fix some of the mistake; she made it where I could feed information to the Corellians, at least. I think it got to the Jedi as well.”

“You got out of there?” Kal asks. 

“Yes. I got out of the Seps’ orbit, but I couldn’t get home. Had to lay low until just a few months ago, when the possibility of sabotaging one of their old projects came about. Plus it helped that somebody killed the ex-Separatist intelligence officer who took it personally when I defected. I heard she finally got killed on my mother’s world.”

Malaky nods with a smile. “The attack on Zeltros. Some Corellians were involved in turning that around. Kinda had a bit to do with Leve Stane’s death, as well. What’d you do in the meantime?”

“I held some odd jobs. Engineer on some pirate and smuggling ships. Worked with a snotnose wannabe named Calrissian for a bit and his navigator droid.”

There are simultaneous explosions, at both of their locations. “They’re attacking both of us,” Kal says. His eyes narrow. “This is different. They’re attacking from several sides. Not trying to herd us anywhere.”

“Coordinates on the comm,” Malaky says, standing up, “time to get to the Cavern. Enough supplies there and they might take come care in attacking us.”

“Why’s that?” Ardalen asks suspiciously, as Malaky climbs on Gral’s shoulders.

“It’s near the surface, but it’s on the border of the coaxium storage facility jus under it. It could blow up with any extra vibration and take out half the planet. Why I put my fallback position there.”

 _Sorry I asked_ , Ardalen thinks sourly. She sees her mother’s crimson face in her mind, smiling at her. She sighs and moves out.


	15. The Man In Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family. In all of its forms.

Melis follows Leeza and the Imperial—apparently called Edan—through an opening in the wall and into the mazelike garden of the Saxon compound. Idly, she wonders yet again where the hell the Saxons had managed to come up with the creativity to design this minimalist garden. 

Tiber had once deigned to answer her question, that Gar and Tiber’s mother, dead before Melis had come to them, had insisted upon it. Something in old Jak’s makeup had relented, giving his bride, a New Mandalorian, whatever she wanted. 

One of the few things Melis could appreciate about him. He’d been polite to her, never harsh, but had beaten Gar and Tiber within an inch of their lives whenever they’d deviated from any of Jak’s version of Mandalorian ideals. 

She’s not sure he’d deserved to be ambushed by the turncoat, whoever he represented. She hears a grunt behind her as the Imperial Advisor, Cantos Lardai, tackles Edan, kneeing her in the face. There are at least ten of the unknown mercenaries behind the woman. Melis turns and delivers what she considers to be one of her better kicks to the Advisor’s face. She raises her purloined blaster up and faces towards the oncoming threats. 

Oncoming threats that suddenly tumble like bowlpins under the onslaught of an energy weapon with a distinctive sound, that she remembers from a brief familiarization session.

A Z-6 rotary blaster. 

Melis and Leeza whirl as two figures run towards them. Leeza holds up her hands in a distinctive pattern. The largest figure, the one holding the heavy blaster, pulls up short. Melis raises her eyebrow at the open grin on the large Falleen woman’s features. 

The smaller figure walks up and lowers her hood and mask. A Mirialan’s tattoos, all pyramidal-shaped, are the first thing Melis sees. 

“I’m Kima Elege,” the Mirialan says, “she’s Elec Leech. She’s the muscle. I’m the brains.” Leech snorts at that, then turns to check all sides with the blaster rotating. “The Mother-Protector sent us. We’re to get the girl offworld.”

Melis feels her anger spike. “The girl isn’t going anywhere, until she checks with the others,” she spits out.

Elege looks at her without expression. “She can carry you, or you can walk,” she says. Leech’s smile grows wider, revealing a tiny gap between her front teeth. 

Leeza shakes her head. “She goes where she wants. That’s what this whole getting her out of slavery thing’s about, isn’t it?”

Neither woman says anything. 

“Isn’t it?” Leeza insists. 

Elege and Leech open up bags over their shoulders and begins to hand out generic power packs for their weapons. 

“Do you know anything about casualties? When I was taken?” Melis asks them. 

Leeza smiles, then pulls out her comm, showing her a text from the Corellian, Covenant. “Yelena will be fine, after a bacta dip or two. The slug traveled between her skull and skin.”

Melis feels her tears prickle her eyes. “She has a damned hard head. Even without the padding of hair.”

“Hate to break up the community sing,” Leech says, “but we need to get somewhere else. I don’t care where.”

Elege nods. “You stay here and cover, lunkhead. I’ll go scout an escape route.”

Leech grins again and pats her on the head. Elege blows a kiss and disappears into the fading light. 

“How touching,” another voice says. Jak’s pet stormtrooper officer walks out. Leech lifts her blaster, but falls from a stun bolt to her back. 

Melis stares at Leeza, who had just shot the Falleen. She fires another one, then two into the prone woman. 

“What the hell, Leeza?” Melis shouts.

“I think that you might be my ticket back to being alive again,” Leeza says. 

Edan stares at them both. Pem Bouva walks over and looks evenly at her, then at Leeza. “Looks like we might have a plan, Edan, dear,” she says, “even though Jak’s dead. Looks like we can make something out of this shit sandwich.” Her helmet swivels towards Leeza. “Perhaps we can make a deal.”

Edan steps up and points her blaster at Pem. “I work for Dorith Panteer. Not you.”

She screams as Pem pushes a button on a small device strapped to her vambrace. Edan drops to the ground, writhing in agony. “Maybe so. But we kept your control matrix,” she says. 

Melis sees the surprised look on Bouva’s face as she tackles the stormtrooper below her waist. The blaster goes flying and she sees Edan relaxing from the relief of the onslaught. 

Melis rolls away from Bouva and comes up, her fists up. Bouva draws a large blade, a blade shimmering with vibrations. Melis searches for her weapon as time suddenly slows. 

She is shoved out of the way as Tarranic Vheh’yaim steps into the path of the vibroblade. 

Melis screams as the blade enters Tarranic’s gut, under the beskar chestplate.

Pem stands up, drawing a pistol. She fires it at a target behind her. 

The blast returns, straight into Bouva’s face. She screams and collapses. Edan walks up next to Melis and looks down at her tormentor. 

Bouva is breathing, but both of them can see that her helmet is laid open, as well as the cheek below from the deflected blast. Melis turns and sees a figure in green armor with gold highlights and a purple sash standing there, the energy shield from his vambrace still activated. 

Drop and the woman known as Iris, as well as another figure in dark red armor stands next to them. 

Melis falls down and looks at the old man who had befriended her in the park. 

She can barely hear the sound of an Imperial troop transport sliding to a stop. 

An older man, perhaps in his late thirties gets out, his wiry form erect and brimming with authority. Delilah Sal and Crix Madine walk behind him.

“I’m Major Gideon of the ISB. Grand Moff Tarkin has seen fit to appoint me the new Imperial Advisor,” he says, each syllable distinct in a cultured voice. 

“Cease all hostilities.”

Melis turns away. She can only hear sobbing. 

She realizes that it is her own.

* * *

Jetto Wasablim watches as the old man walks over to him. The old man stands in front of him and stares up into his eyes. The mask of the buy’ce is expressionless, but as soon-to-be family, the man’s cold blue eyes are familiar to him. Jetto knows that they hold only a little bit of fierceness in them, with more laughter and what passes for warmth. A rarity in this fierce warrior. 

Munin Skirata nods and reaches up to place his weathered hands on Jetto’s shoulders. “You have sworn the Creed, Jetto Wasablim,” he says, “I know you as if my son.” He moves his hands to Jetto’s cheeks, then looks over at the younger boy—his other foundling, found orphaned in the rubble of Surcaris. “You are as if my son’s older brother.” Jetto moves his eyes over to the two older men standing in their armor and helmets, watching. He can feel the warmth from both of them, the pride of Jango Fett and Tarranic Vheh’yaim—pride and more from one of them.

Jetto’s mind flips to another scene, of Tarranic lying underneath him, their hands and mouths roaming over each other’s naked bodies. The light expands in that memory; the memory shifts to one just as joyous for him. He watches as Tarranic—now known by another name—is accepted as the mate of Wren Shysa—there is no jealousy as he stands next to them. Wren’s green eyes watch him with warmth and amusement. 

That pride is replaced with one for the two tiny children, an older girl and a younger son in Tarranic’s arms. 

The memories darken as he stares at Tarranic. His vod—even more—the man who he had held as he grieved his daughter and then his mate—hurls insults at him. He stands firm at the onslaught, as the tries to talk Tarranic from his anger and vitriol at the discovery of arcane abilities in his half-Corellian grandson. 

He watches as Tarranic calms, listening to his idea. An idea to save his grandson, while removing the painful memories of those Shysa green eyes. Jetto’s soul twists as he sees those green eyes in a beloved face, as she looked upon her son with her Corellian husband. Tarranic’s pride and joy, his daughter Nadara. 

He remembers passing the solid little boy to Fenn—the other twin, who had looked more like Wren, with his paler skin and blonde hair, to rendezvous with the boy’s Corellian uncle. 

The last link to that Corellian family. One member of whom, Jetto was sure, had murdered Nadara and Jamestyn Blackthorn. 

The memories cascade through his mind, rolling into one another, exploding with light and sound, all rolling into one another. He sees the two women who now hold his life in their hands, two women in Imperial uniforms—one, the older, a naval officer, the other encased in a durasteel version of stormtrooper armor. Armor that owes it design to that culture that had taken Jetto in. A culture that had given him a home. He watches in the flood of memories as the women watch dispassionately as the hated plastic box, with its diabolical crown is attached to his head and activated. 

The box that is the center of his world—one that controls and compels his every move. 

He shakes his head violently, as he comes back to the present. A voice cuts through all of the memories. One who is present in them. 

For an instant, the pain and the fog recedes as his synapses fire and he identifies the voice in his mind and his hearing. He knows himself; he sees his brother Kal. The brother last seen as unknown Mandos drag Jetto away, his weapons and his bucket thrown to the ground.

His own shame the most powerful emotion he feels, as he sees his brother—the Blade—being bombarded by various weapons. Unable to get to him. 

He starts towards Kal. His heart full with nothing more than joy at seeing his younger sibling.

Joy quickly replaced by a burning pain in his head as the control box finally engages. The joyous vision of his reunion with his brother is replaced by that of Pem Bouva and Phyllida Enolo as they both test out the control box—burning his brain from within with those tests. 

He shakes his head again, hoping to find his past once more. 

It has vanished. Replaced by the sight of Kal and his fellow fugitives—he thinks of him only as the ‘Mando’. Jetto realizes that this quarry has managed to get themselves into a large cavern. He can hear the slightly distant noise of the processing towers for the rich coaxium. He can see the quarry managing to crisp his so-called allies from multiple positions. 

Jetto jerks his head at another squad. They stare at him, then allow themselves to do what he had told them to do beforehand. Two of them pull a heavy box towards the front, opening it and exposing the long tube.

The tube of a brand new Imperial weapon—an E-WEB cannon—a heavy weapon that is a gift from the two women who own him.

He watches as the minions hurry to set the weapon up, attaching it to the power pack and tripod.

The chief minion nods at him after several minutes. As the gunner sets up behind the cannon and the noise of the charging sounds in his senses, there is another sudden noise. One that continues, a deep rumbling starting above the cavern, and joining with the same noise from below. 

He looks back into the narrow confines of the canyon. He realizes that several others have joined his quarry in the cavern and are adding their firepower to the noise.

He sees Kal—his younger brother—standing up amidst the fire, as pieces of the ceiling above Jetto start to fall. Kal screams at him, but Jetto can’t hear what he says. 

Another human. A middle-aged woman in a worn cloak, stands up and raises her hands above her head. Kal turns and screams at her. 

After a long second, the woman nods and moves one of her hands to point at Jetto.

He begins to feels a warmth surround him. He feels nothing as he is lifted and begins to move forward toward the cavern.

Jetto Wasblim feels nothing as the world falls in around him.

* * *

Dani somehow manages not to tap her foot impatiently as the Pyke digests their bonafides from Xizor. Ahsoka stands next to her, her face and lekku mostly hidden by the scarf Dani had once bought her. Her blue eyes are distant, but Dani can tell that she is alert. 

Dani breathes out as her eyes move over Ahsoka’s face. She wonders if there actually is a Force user with Ardalen. She had seen Ahsoka whispering into Meglann’s ear as they had been granted landing permission. Meglann had looked grim as she’d nodded. 

She closes her eyes for a brief moment. She’d taught herself to always trust Ahsoka, ever since they’d stood next each other, their hands interlinked as best as the binders and Force-resistant cuffs would allow, the solid feel of the stone walls at their backs, as they waited to feel the crash of a dozen blaster bolts into their chests. 

Dani opens her eyes and smiles a tiny bit, distracting herself as she waits for the verdict on their safe-conduct. She remembers how the two of them had celebrated their lives together during the rest of the fertility festival on her birthworld. She feels her breathing intensify; she works hard not to project these emotions anywhere else in this particular group of scumbags. She does allow herself those memories, memories of Ahsoka’s cooler skin under her lips as Ahsoka’s cries had moved into a range that she couldn’t hear. Their first night of sharing each other’s bodies, a night that cemented their status as ta’in’gere’a, sisters of the heart, as well as sisters of their bodies. One that had somehow led to the current association from her father’s world, the Links of the Covenant Chain. 

Her heart twists as she remembers another Force user—one besides Bryne and Ahsoka—who had captured her heart with a deeper relationship. 

A bond of the inner heart. The Jedi Master, Shaak Ti, a teacher for both Ahsoka and Bryne. She remembers kneeling on Ti and Ahsoka’s world, clad only in the red and white cloth bonds that had tied them together. An instant before Ti had produced the matching bonding chain that had encircled each of their waists. A chain signifying their undying love for each other.

Dani shakes her head slightly, keeping her hand from touching the chain under her trousers, as she always does, when these thoughts and memories assault her. She notices that the Pyke is looking at Ahsoka. She starts to move her hand to the back of her shirt, touching the bone handle of what hangs from a harness. The Pyke guards hadn’t searched them, a sharp glance from Ahsoka had convinced them that they didn’t need to yet. 

Ahsoka comes back to herself as well, returning his scrutiny. The harsh voice starts from the vocoder of the mask. “So this is the famous Jana Roshti. The skilled mercenary who captured the heart of a powerful Senator.”

Dani manages to keep her eyes from rolling at the pompous tone. “So I guess all that press that you’ve put out is working. Soon you’ll have a holobook of cooking and housekeeping tips,” she whispers. 

There is no reply, but Dani can feel the grin forming under the scarf-hood. 

“So tell me, Roshti, how did you manage to get the Senator wrapped around your fingers?” the Pyke continues. 

“What do you think?” ‘Jana’ asks, pointing at herself. 

Dani looks appreciatively at the combination of the seductive and practical in Jana’s tight trousers and canvas jacket, held closed by only one hook and eye, placed strategically under her breasts. 

The Pyke makes an unidentifiable noise. “There’s no accounting for taste,” he intones. “We’d ask that you give your lovely wife the Senator our complements, but I’m afraid you’ll never see her again.” He pauses, as Dani feels Ahsoka tense next to her. “You might remember her as you’re toiling away in the spice mines, a shock-collar around your lovely throat. Or when you see her in your mind as your guts are spilled on the ground when you inevitably resist.”

Dani sees Ahsoka’s hands moving towards where her lightsabers are hidden, but move instead to the blasters under her arms. 

The Pyke soldiers have tensed as well, as more of them come into the chamber, just off of the landing field. “I’m afraid your safe-conduct from Prince Xizor has been revoked. It seems that his Highness is consolidating his power and there is no room for his uncle Malaky.” His eyeslits focus on Dani. “He also feels that he’s tolerated a certain Zeltron in his orbit for too long. One that’s caused problems for his operations on Corellia.” He moves closer to them. “He’s a great believer in the legend that eating the heart of a Zeltron increases performance in Falleen—“

He screams as a knifeblade strikes his mask, an energy web arcing out from the bone handle, circling his head. 

Drawing the vibroblade through his mask. Right between the eyes. 

“He might choke on my heart,” Dani murmurs, drawing her blaster.

As the Pyke drops, Ahsoka holds out her hands and shoves, simultaneously smashing the group of soldiers surrounding the leader’s body agains the nearest wall and shorting out the various cameras. 

“You’ve been holding out on me, sweetie,” Ahsoka says as she draws and opens up with her blasters, crisping thugs right and left.

“Figured using a Falleen blade would send a message to a Falleen that killing me might be easier said than done,” she replies. 

Both of them start to head out of the chamber. Apparently no one else has heard the blasterfire that had cleared the room; the corridors are empty. 

Ahsoka pulls out her comm. “Hey, ‘glann,” she says into the pickup, “if you’re through inspecting Chardri’s hyperdrive tension rod, do you think you could possibly get to the spot we discussed? The one I that marked? I think there might be some people wanting a pickup.”

As they start to run, Dani looks at her sister-of-the-heart with amazement. “Have you suddenly developed an emotional resonance? I guess all that hanging around me has paid off. How else would you know that Meglann has been knocking boots with Tage?”

Dani doesn’t have to see the Smirk playing over Ahsoka’s features under the scarf, to know it’s there. “Don’t need your hoodoo, babe,” Ahsoka says as they run, “saw her checking his ass out for a longer than normal time.”

“What’s a normal time for that?” Dani asks curiously.

* * *

Tarranic feels nothing—nothing more than his body shutting down. He opens his eyes—surprised that both of them seem to be working rather than just the right. He knows he must be dead, or close, if the eye that was robbed from him by that damned disease now works.

Jetto Wasablim stares at him, his eyes blank. Tarranic feels a sensation of warmth move over him, centered in his heart. The heart twists as he sees the blinking attached to one side of his skull crest. 

“I’m sorry, Jetto. I never blamed you. I never blamed your little brother Kal for Melis’s kidnapping. Just like I never really blamed him for your taking while trying to keep Melis safe.” He feels his eyes close, focusing on their faces. “I might have made him think I did, because of the way that I reacted when Taliesin manifested with the Force; I’m sure you told him about that. I guess that I owe you, Jetto. More than just being my friend and lover.” He chokes. “My brother.

“I owe you for keeping me from making the biggest mistake of a life of mistakes. Killing my grandson, who holds such promise for many of the things that may make this benighted place right. You saved me from myself.”

The apparition says nothing. “I’m going to make sure that someone comes for you. It won’t be me, but someone will come for you. I swear.”

Jetto’s face fades. It is quickly replaced by a beautiful young woman, forever young. Her green eyes shine in her dark face, the familiar knife scar over and parallel to her quirked left eyebrow. 

Nadara Shysa, his daughter and sister to Fenn, shakes her head at him. “Against my better judgement, old man, I’m going to tell you something. In spite of yourself, you’ve managed to do the right thing for everyone.”

Her eyes tear. “Including my son.”

He shakes his head again. “Don’t blame me for things turning out right. I tried my damndest to screw it up.”

She laughs and rolls her eyes, before growing serious again. “I did learn so much from you. I learned to love my family, even when they pissed me off. You were a good father and loved us. Family was more than just a word for you.” She looks to her left. A very tall man with Bryne Covenant’s face, much older, but with sharp gray eyes looks down at her and smiles. “You taught me how to love my family. Even though I only had them for a brief time.

“We’ll see you soon,” says another voice. Wren Shysa. The alor of Clan Shysa. The last True ruler of Mandalore, before the Kryzes took over. Before the Duchess. The young woman with the green eyes and pointed, elfin chin who had stolen his heart with her pert smile and mischievous manner. 

Not to mention her skill with a jetpack and beskad. A weapon that had been pointed at his privates on many occasion.

She stand over him and bends down, the same mischievous expression on her face, as when she sank down on him, her passion overriding everything.

Just as she lived. He chokes in his mind’s voice as he sees her, shining and brilliant, her red-gold hair almost blinding. 

“I was never worthy of you, alor’ika,” he manages, “I wasn’t a good person.”

She smiles and places her fingers on his lips, then laughs at him. “You dumbass. I didn’t choose you as a mate because you were a good person. I chose you because you were a protector. You would be loyal to me and our children.”

“But I nearly killed our only grandson—at least until Fenn managed to spawn one. I cast him out from the protection of hearth and kin.”

She shakes her head. “It turned out it might have been best that you cast him out. He was protected and nurtured. Both by the Corellians and the jetti. Each in their own way.”

The Shysa stops, then kisses him. He can feel the brush of lips on his. “Our family must go on. It’s time that you give Fenn your blessing as alor. He will keep the memory alive, even with his own Foundling—that overgrown copy of you—Drop, and Iris if she wants a new family. The Unwanteds will be come Shysas.”

“I don’t know if they can stay on Manda’yaim,” he says. 

His left eye’s vision fades as he realizes that he lays on the ground, staring up at Melis’s tear-streaked face. He feels the pain start as lifts his hand and touches her face. 

It is solid, rather than ephemeral. Bryne has knelt next to him as well. Others surround him, including a different Imperial. 

He raises his head. Iris is there to help him sit up. 

“This is the declaration of a dying man,” he manages. “Of the Regent of Clan Shysa and the alor of the Unwanteds.”

He notices that Iris has switched her holocomm on. “I adopt all of the Unwanteds—all that remain, as members of Clan Shysa. I know each of them by name as my sons and daughters.” He speaks the same words in Mando’a.

“Fenn Shysa is now the alor of this aliit, as he was meant to be. The Unwanteds are no more. Only Clan Shysa of House Kryze,” he says. He can hear murmurings from the Saxons and the Imperial. He gathers himself and touches Iris’s cheek, then reaches out and grasps Drop’s hand. “Tarre Tredecima, known as Drop, my son’s adopted son, will be alor’ad of the clan, along with Iris, once known as Rook, if she’ll have it. She may keep her name, if she desires it as well. She has led the Unwanteds well at my side.”

He stares at Leeza Antol—a sister of his dishonored family—the ones he cast out. He shakes his head and turns to Gar Saxon, and his brother. The new Imperial Advisor listens intently. “This is the dying declaration of an alor of a Mandalorian clan. The Shysas will leave Manda’yaim. They will take the path of the Wild Jaigs—the Shriek-Hawks. Just as the flower of our people did in times past. The path of the wandering warriors.” He stares at Gar. “As such the Shysas will not oppose your claim.” He manages to grin. “Even though Fenn Shysa was once the true Mand’alor.”

After a moment Saxon nods. 

“Since your father is dead, the warrant of Foundling died with him. It was one that was stolen in the first place. We have the legal warrant. Melis Shysa is now a Foundling of Clan Shysa. She is under their protection.”

Through the haze of his pain, as he struggles to say his piece, Tarranic can see Gar and Tiber’s anger. The ISB officer, Gideon steps up.

“I’m not sure what this means, but several parties would like to talk to this young lady. She also has a term of service to complete for the Emperor.”

Gar shakes his head. “No, Advisor. She has a Mandalorian warrant of Foundling on her person. This is one of our oldest traditions and laws.”

“I don’t care,” Gideon says.

“I do,” Gar replies staring at the Imperial. “You don’t want to start your term, or mine as Viceroy with having to suppress a rebellion over this matter.” He stares at the Imperial.

“This is the way.”

Tarranic and every Mando present repeats the words. After a moment, the man once known as Bryne Covenant repeats the words.

“You might want to quit while you’re ahead, Gideon,” Delilah Sal says. 

Gideon whirls on her. “If I wanted advice from Corellia, I’d ask for it.”

Delilah smiles. “Maybe. Moff Tarkin sent you here. But you’re still a serving ISB officer, with the rank of Major.” She touches her rank plaque. “Still got more of these,” she says. “My ISB number is also higher. Grand Moff Isard, who is also ISB-01, has given me leave to arbitrate this matter. So that you don’t step on your dick in your first few minutes.”

Gideon’s dark face flushes. After awhile, he nods and smiles tightly. He motions to two troopers, who follow him into the night.

“Everyone leave us. Except for Bryne and Melis,” Tarranic says. “Bryne will have care of our Foundling.”

He is treated in his dying moments to the sight of Bryne’s shocked face.

Bryne looks down at him as Melis allows Tarranic’s head to rest in her lap. “Bryne, you will be her protector. You will ensure that she gets to her mother. She will be your responsibility even after she meets her mother. I charge you, as your grandfather.”

“You’ve never been a grandfather before, old man,” Bryne says. Tarranic can see tears glistening in his eyes. _Those damned Shysa eyes_ , he thinks.

“I know. I wronged you, many years ago. I am in awe of the man that you’ve become. I ask this of you, knowing what kind of man you are.”

Bryne is silent. Tarranic can feel his breaths coming fewer and far between. He fights the darkness around the vision of his eye.

“I take care of those I care about, old man,” Bryne says, “I don’t need some fancy Mando law. She’s dear to those who are dear to me. Someone who is my heart, is right at this moment risking her life and the lives of our other loves to bring her mother home to Melis.”

Tarranic nods, then gasps. “I was right about you. Tell Kal to find Jet—

Bryne reaches down and closes his single eye as his breath escapes. Melis collapses on Tarranic’s chest—the one who had been her anchor—the one who had shown her kindness.

Not knowing that if the universe had been right, she would’ve been his daughter in all but blood.

* * *

Meglann flushes at Ahsoka’s words as she manages to turn the comlink off. She lets her breathing slow, then rests her forehead across Chardri Tage’s broad chest. She feels his lips move through her sweaty curls. After a half-minute, she pushes off from him and stands up from the work bench she’d been resting on. She feels him move out of her as she reaches down and pulls her trousers up. 

Chardri looks at her with that sardonic eyebrow raise. “Don’t worry about what she said. You’re an adult,” he says. She grins and kisses him, allowing her tongue to meet with his. 

Meglann shoves him backwards. She winces as he falls on his ass; his own trousers are on the deck around his ankles. “Come on, bud,” she starts, “time to think with something else.”

She moves out of the engine room to the bridge. She touches Jana’s picture and pushes past Boge. 

He shakes his head. “Is the engine room okay, Captain?” he asks, with no small amount of dripping, innocent sarcasm. He looks at her chest. “You missed a button.”

She shoves him back a step. Without bothering to turn around, she stares at him challengingly as she unbuttons her shirt and rebuttons it. Meglann grins at his blush as he turns away, back to the nav table. She moves over to stand behind the pilot seat, where Murta Locke already has the engines up. 

“Shields up,” she commands. “You got a lock on Fulcrum’s position and where she wants us to go?”

Murta says something for several seconds in his thick accent, multiplied in its incomprehensibility by his thick beard and mustache. She believes he said, “Got it. Ready to go. Already transmitted several routes to them.”

“Raise ship,” she says. She notices the slightly demented gunner droid, Deuce, or more properly, R10-X22, lock in at the weapons station. Chardri saunters in, surveying the bridge. After a brief second, he reaches back and touches the holo, then moves towards her. He smirks with only a hint of challenge. Meglann rolls her eyes and motions to the vacant co-pilot’s seat. “Make yourself useful,” is all that she says. 

She ignores his glance, then sits as a command chair rises from the deck behind her. She belts herself in, allowing the tiny bit of pride to swell. Meglann sighs, knowing it is temporary.

For now.

As the ship lifts, she feels the shuddering from blasterfire against her shields. The shuddering stops as Deuce, giving his strange mix of binary and Basic, making short work of the blaster wielders. 

She looks up at the repeater screen, her eyes narrowing at the red arrowheads moving onto the screen. “Punch it,” she says to Murta. In answer, she feels herself being pushed back against the chair, the straps of her harness tightening.

Meglann smiles as she sees the fighters explode. A larger, sable-with-red-and-gold shape moves into position. “You’re covered, kitten,” Lassa says. “Go get our package.”

It is a tense few moments until she spots the signal that Ahsoka had marked. She stares at the slight mound, then nods. She turns and stands up, feeling the chair fold into the deck. She turns to the unfamiliar blue and silver astromech at an ad hoc station near the engineering systems monitor. 

“Okay, trashcan. Ahsoka says I should always trust a droid. Time to do what we’re paying you for,” she says. She turns back to the forward viewport, ignoring the sniggering, and most likely, uncomplimentary beep from the droid.

‘Artooey’, as she had heard Ahsoka affectionately call the droid, plugs into the station, executing their surprise.


	16. Sinners Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Families come together.

Ming Lardai exits the cantina amid the chaos. The chaos caused by an unknown person rolling four stun-grenades into the scrum of thugs. She shakes her head as if attempting to clear her hearing. She continues to move towards the small spaceport. 

She looks down as she walks, reaching up and touching the blast mark on the armor under her tunic, and corresponding bruise starting to spread on her chest, right square over where her heart was located. She stops, looks both ways—behind and front of her, then pulls a comm.

The icon of a smaller Hutt appears, along with the connecting tone. 

A connecting tone that goes unanswered. She goes through a list of different icons, all that appear to be dressed in various types of Imperial uniforms. 

She clicks off, then takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. She touches another button on the comm. 

No icon, but after several rings, it connects. 

Ming bows her head as Xizor, Prince of the Falleen and Vigo of Black Sun, stares at her. “I need an escape route, my Prince,” Lardai says. 

After a moment of staring at her, he shakes his head. “I invested nearly four decades in you, letting you climb the ranks in Jabba’s organization, to be his right hand. Letting you sow discord and move my objectives forward. That’s all gone, now.” 

Lardai starts to say something, but stops as he raises his hand. “You’ve destroyed all that with your own greed, shaving money off of Geddan’s dues, then sacrificing a promising asset in Geddan. It’s time for you to die. Panteer won’t be coming to your aid this time. He won’t risk going against his master, Jabba.” He smiles, an expression that reaches across light years with its malice. “I hear that he’s got problems of his own, between the Corellians, the Alderaani, and the Fondorians.”

The holo disappears. After a long moment, another glance around her, she tries another number. A younger copy of Ming’s face pops up.

A message. The younger copy, dressed in a commando’s field uniform, or at least a version of one, speaks into the pickup. “This is Captain Cantos Lardai. I’m currently in transit between assignments, from Mandalore to the Minister’s office for reassignment. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you if I think it necessary.”

“Hello, Ming. Guess you thought that you were shot of me,” Nola Vorserrie says from behind her. 

Ming Lardai whirls, bringing her blaster up. She stops as she see the Mando holding a carbine on her. Nola grins as an expression of recognition flows over her features. A smile replaces it. Her eyes track downward at the blinking fob in his left hand.

“Boba Fett,” Lardai says, “I’ve heard a lot about you. You think you can take that fob on me?”

Nola can see, based on her knowledge of his body language, that snark may ensue.

“Don’t think,” he replies. “I know.”

Nola turns to him. “I’d rather not kill her. It’s not my way.”

“A bounty ain’t too choosy, Vorserrie,” he says. “She was going to slit your throat and let you bleed out in the street, without blinking an eye.”

“It isn’t my way, Boba,” she repeats quietly. 

“Oh for the love of all things evil, won’t somebody kill me so that I don’t have to listen to this sentimental tripe?” Lardai spits.

A noise cuts into Nola’s senses, a _chuff_. Lardai drops without a sound. Nola walks over to her, slowly, deliberately. Lardai’s eyes are open and staring. The dent where Nola’s blaster bolt had struck is now a hole. A hole that shows through to bare skin and a corresponding hole in that skin. 

And deeper. There is only a slight oozing of blood in the cauterized wound. Nola whirls on Boba. 

He is looking outward, his blaster giving no evidence of being fired. 

A figure jumps down from a nearby rooftop. A female figure whose face is covered by a helmet. She carries a long blaster rifle, even though it wasn’t needed at such close range. 

Nola and Boba keep her covered as she stops and looks down at Lardai’s corpse. 

She slings her rifle and lifts her hands, palm outward to her helmet. An almost identical face to Lardai’s is revealed—identical but a few years younger. Not a daughter, though.

Nola hears Boba’s helmet vocoder give an uncertain intake of breath. “You’re Fennic Shand. Thought Lardai looked familiar. You’ve got a helluva reputation among certain circles.”

Shand looks at him, then at Nola. “Yeah. This piece of poodoo is my sister. Was,” she corrects. 

“You killed your own sister?” Nola asks sharply. 

“Yeah,” comes the reply. “Don’t mourn too much. I’ve still got a mother, and this one’s Imperial whelp to find, then I’ll be good.” Her eyes narrow. “I don’t want to hear about family ties,” she adds.

Nola stares at her. “Some family,” she says anyway. _Last word._

Shand turns to Boba. “This was personal,” she says, “you and your girlfriend can keep the fob.”

Boba shakes his head. “I don’t take someone else’s kill or capture.”

Shand smiles. “I don’t give them, either. But I’ve got a rep with the Hutts and the other syndicates. I’ve followed your career with interest, Fett. This’ll help your’s. You could stand some steady work.” Without another word, she turns and walks away.

Nola looks down at Lardai. “Not how I wanted this to go. But, even if I let you take her, she’d be dead at Jabba’s hands.”

Boba shakes his head. “Maybe not. Jabba might’ve made us fight.” He slings his carbine, then reaches up and touches Nola’s cheek softly. “Gotta go, Nola,” he says.

After a moment, Nola nods. “I could use an in with Jabba,” she says, knowing his answer already.

He shakes his head. “As much as I like you Nola, or at least tolerate you,” he says, nodding at her grin, “I don’t serve two masters.”

Nola can feel his own grin behind the helmet. “Try to keep your chain-code clear, twit. I wouldn’t want to have to hunt you,” he says.

“Try not to get too slimy, working for a Hutt, stud,” she replies as he turns away. 

She watches him leave, then allows the camdroid to float down and settle on her shoulder. She smiles as she deactivates the live feed—the one that she’d use to track Ming. She replays Lardai’s words to Xizor. 

As she walks towards the spaceport for a pickup, she thinks of how she can possibly keep two murder lords at bay. Xizor with this recording about his infiltration of Jabba’s organization, and Rotta with the threat of going to his father with his treachery. 

In the back of her mind, she reflects on Boba, as well as Rae Sloane. She wonders if there is now another in the universe that she cares about that she might have to kill in the future. 

Or another that might stand over her corpse in a slightly different future.

* * *

Melis watches as the remaining Unwanteds— _no, the Shysas_ —bear Tarranic’s body away. She leans into Covenant and Drop. She can feel their strength through the beskar’gam that Bryne wears and the thickly muscled arm of Drop. Drop kisses her forehead and follows the body.

She sees the young woman who had helped her to escape. She looks down at Pem Bouva as two troopers lift her onto a stretcher droid. 

“Edan,” Melis says quietly. 

Edan turns towards her. A warm smile grows over her face, an expression that Melis is sure that has been rare recently. “Hey,” Edan replies. 

Melis takes her into her arms. “What are you doing?” she asks. 

“Taking her back to Phyllida—her captain. Then I’ll go back to Dorith.”

Melis stares at her. “You’re going back to a certain death sentence? She doesn’t seem like a forgiving type,” she finishes, pointing at Bouva’s prostrate form.

“She’s not. But I have a form signed by Dorith Panteer saying that I’m assigned to him.”

“How do you know he’ll protect you?” Melis insists. 

“Because someone close to him, is going to insist,” Edan says. She pulls Melis closer. “Plus, maybe his daughter might be able to help.”

Two figures come out of the night. Melis grins as she sees them. Kima Eleege supports Elec Leech as they walk out of the garden. Elec has her hand clutched on the back of the neck of Leeza Antol, who manages to keep up as Elec coaxes her along.

“Caught this scum trying to sneak out. Thought I’d have some words with her. Words about betraying the Mother-Protector,” Elec says. She starts as Melis hugs first her, then Kima. 

Melis looks at Leeza. “Why?”

The woman smiles. “Because I wanted what I once had,” Leeza says. “I want my power—my agency back.”

Kima looks at her. “You won’t get it. You were willing to turn this girl over to a fate like slavery. You’d take her agency from her. She who never did anything to you.” 

Leeza’s gaze sharpens. “She was a means to an end.”

Covenant looks at Leeza. “Tarranic trusted you also, Antol. You were part of his original clan, he told me,” he says. 

“I don’t believe any of that tripe that the Antols started on Mandalore. If we did, it was ancient history.”

Iris starts towards her. Covenant touches her arm. “Don’t. I’m not sure that these folks are going to be too kind to her.”

Elec Leech smiles. “I don’t know. The Mother-Protector does have a soft heart.” Both of the women turn away from Leeza for an instant.

Leeza starts to run. Melis opens her mouth, but closes it as Leeza disappears from view. She shakes her head

Melis gasps as she sees Leeza crumpled on the ground. She moves over to her side and kneels. 

Leeza’s dark eyes are open and staring, her teeth clinched. 

Melis opens her top. The pulmonodes no longer glow. She looks up at Elec and Kima. “What did you do?” she asks quietly. 

Both women look as perplexed as her.

“I think Tarranic got the last word,” Drop says, walking into the light. He tosses a small device to Bryne. “This was in his hand.”

Bryne kneels next to Leeza. He points the device at her body. 

A quick light comes on the pulmonodes as he pushes the button on the device. One light. 

Melis watches as he reaches down and closes Leeza’s eyes. 

“Wonder where he got that?” Drop muses. “Took awhile for it to work.”

Iris turns away, her eyes tearing. “He was always a good judge of people, at least since I’ve known him,” she says. “He was always two steps ahead of everybody. Guess we might ask his meddroid.” She looks at Bryne, still in his bucket. “I think he might’ve learned from a time when he was a shitty judge of character.” Her eyes soften. “From when he nearly threw away something special.”

Melis watches as Iris touches the side of his bucket. He allows her to pull it up and off. “I’m glad that you landed on your feet, bud.” She reaches up and kisses him quickly, before turning away. Cyn Eldar nods at him and turns to follow her. 

Kima Eleege looks at Melis. “Time to go. The Mother-Protector is ready to welcome you as one of her free children.”

“I don’t think she’s going anywhere, but with us,” Bryne says. Drop moves over next to him, as the gunship moves in behind them.

Elec curses and brings her heavy blaster up. The Mirialan merely smiles. “The Mother-Protector told us to be mindful of you, Corellian,” she says, “she had a feeling you’d show up.”

“How?” he asks. “I’ve never met a ‘Mother-Protector’.”

“She remembers you. You and your pregnant mate. When you freed her and her child from slavery. On a ship from Nar Kanji.”

Melis sees his face grow pale. He stumbles, but Drop is able to hold him up. When he looks up, Melis sees something she never expected to see.

Tears of grief. 

“It’s in her memory, that she told us to protect you, Corellian. The one called the Storm-king.” Kima’s expression darkens. “But she also told us under no circumstances were we to come away without her.”

Melis places her hand on Bryne’s arms; she pulls Drop close as well. “I’m going with them. At least for awhile. I’m going to confront my father. Send someone to get me in a week or two.”

He starts to protest, but stops as she places her fingers on his lips. “I’ll be okay. Other people have been standing for me. Yelena. Tarranic. Drop. You. It’s time for me to stand for myself.”

He shakes his head, but smiles. “Nobody’s stood for you, love,” he says, “we all just stood behind you.” He pulls her tightly to him, burying his nose in her hair. “I have to say that as the one responsible for you, as my Foundling, I’m damned proud of you. I’ll bring your mother and your sister to you, and we’ll figure out the path ahead.”

“I’d like that,” she says against the chest of his armor. She feels him look at the two women. “Make sure that she’s safe,” he says simply.

“With our lives,” Elec says.

Melis starts to sob. This time the grief is mixed with joy.

* * *

Ahsoka reaches out to the Force as she moves through the caverns. She turns and looks at the other following her. Her heart twists at the looks of absolute loyalty and love on Dani’s faces. She turns and starts to run through the tunnels towards the sound of intense blasterfire, as well as the sharp reports of slugthrowers and grenade explosions. 

She almost stops as her Force sense locks on that feeling that had been nagging at her since they’d come into Kessel’s orbit. Something familiar, but something strange as well. Almost as if there was only a echo of Force sense being used. She continues to move towards the sound of battle, shaking her head against the sudden onslaught of a sharp pain in her head. 

Ahsoka senses sharp concern from that Corellian house flag in her head. Bryne says nothing, as if he is concentrating on his own troubles, but that powerful presence—at least for the time being helps center her against the pain. 

As her hands move to strike down attackers, almost with a mind of her own, she concentrates on the familiar. Her memory travels back to yet another punishment stint as a hangar deck page at the Jedi Temple. She looks down at herself, her much smaller and skinnier body is dressed in her rarely worn formal tunic, trousers, and tabard, minus the robe. 

A human woman of less than normal height gazes at her with a warm smile, her pale blue eyes studying her under reddish-blond hair. “Hello,” the woman says. “What transgression led you to greet visitors from another Order?” Her smile turns mischievous. “Or transgressions.”

She realizes that the woman wears a dark green robe, rather than the brown of the Jedi, over her sand colored under-vestments. 

The robe of the Order of the Green Temple, an offshoot of the Jedi from her clan-leader’s homeworld, Corellia.

Ahsoka comes back to herself, suddenly realizing that there had been something ethereal about Green Jedi standing before her. As if she had only barely existed. 

She realizes that she and the others have been joined by some of Lassa’s crew, including Lassa and Thyla. Somehow, she’d managed to fight most of the battle as if by rote, her mind on the past. 

“You okay, love?” Lassa asks. 

“Yeah,” Ahsoka replies quickly. Her eyes lock on the older version of that echo, no longer wearing her official robe, but only the light-colored clothing. She searches for a name.

“Master Jess,” she says. 

The woman’s pale blue eyes lock on hers. She smiles, with only a bit of confusion. “Knight? Tano?”

Ahsoka feels a hint of warning, as she feels something move through her mind. “Not a Jedi, Master,” she replies. “My name is Jana Roshti.”

Soma Jess’s eyes narrow at her, but she nods. Ahsoka remembers the last part of the story, from a letter that Tal had sent her during a lull in his campaigns. “I’d heard you’d been sent here, Master. By your Order and the Corellian government. After you nearly exposed a couple of good friends of mine to the Separatists.” She turns and looks at one of those two, firing her blaster with customary accuracy at the attackers. She grins as Dani blows her a kiss. 

The other of those two can be felt in her mind, as the colors of his family. A young Jedi and a young Corellian security officer, both parties to a particular arrangement between Draq’ Bel Iblis and Yoda, maintaining communication and cooperation, while keeping Corellia’s official neutrality intact.

Soma Jess nods after a moment. “I know. I hadn’t intended to expose them. I was looking after my world’s interests as well.”

“I’m wondering how you survived Order 66?”

“Who’d be threatened by an expelled Jedi? One whose powers have grown extraordinarily rusty with disuse.”

Ahsoka is about to reply as Malaky and another older Pantoran male run up to her. She smiles down at Malaky as he bows to her. 

Soma turns her eyes back to her. “I think that Chi might have an escape route,” she says. 

Malaky looks at her with a knowing smile. “Never underestimate my family,” he says. 

Soma stares at him. “What the hell do you mean, ‘your family’?” He looks upward at a glowing cut forming on two sides of the ceiling. A cut that moves towards each other.

Malaky doesn’t answer as the glowing cut of the ceiling comes together. The ceiling drops completely. Soma lifts her hands, as if hoping to ward the ceiling off from them. Ahsoka doesn’t move. 

Soma needn’t have bothered as the ceiling slowly lowers to the ground. An old _Consular_ class light corvette powers down above it. Her eyes widen at the strange contraption that circles the ship, culminating in two downward-pointing, pivoting cylinders. 

Both of which are nearly melted with sparks and smoke erupting from them. As the ceiling touches the ground, the device falls away from the hull, revealing the unique green stripe. 

A stripe that symbolizes a vessel of Soma’s homeworld. The ship settles on top of the former ceiling. As she relaxes her arms, a torrent of water is released from the bow, drowning the heat in a rush of steam. 

Soma takes a deep breath, as the ramp lowers. An impossibly young woman moves down from the ramp, followed by a couple of impossibly large males. Meglann holds an extremely large blaster in her hand, a blaster that she starts to fire at their opponents. The turbolasers on the upper turrets train towards the approaching Pykes and open up. 

A shadow passes over the new opening. A larger corvette, this in sable with a narrow and crimson-gold stripe settles in, opening fire above them.

Ahsoka sees several hordes of Pykes at the lip of the cavern, including some that apparently own tanks. They make no move to join the attack. She looks at Malaky. 

“My power as the great fake spice lord doesn’t depend on my nephew’s good will,” he says, “that was just my side job. Those Pykes heeded my passcode. The ships and these attackers are of a different sept.” He stares at Soma. “Come on, Soma. Let’s get Kal. Chi’s got our escape route planned.”

Some nods, but looks at Ahsoka. Ahsoka once again feels a stab of pain. “I never meant to hurt that Jedi. He was of my world. Is he still alive?”

“I’d never tell you,” Ahsoka replies, her anger spiking.

Soma closes her eyes. “If he is, tell him that.” She moves towards Ahsoka, who tenses. She holds her hands out. Without a word, she embraces Ahsoka.

Ahsoka allows it; Soma moves her forehead to hers, closing her eyes. Ahsoka nearly pushes her away as an image of a dying moon—a moon oozing with the Force comes into her mind. 

“I’m going there, someday. I think that your Corellian would benefit from going there as well. I can sense that he is troubled in the Force. The Franza discipline can help him, as it helped me heal my connection to the Force.”

With that, she breaks away and is gone.

Lassa touches her arm. “We’re holding the snubships off, dears,” she says, “but there are some larger picket ships that might make our lives interesting.”

“Come on,” Meglann says, “time to go, babe.” She pulls Ahsoka into a quick hug as her worried eyes play over her face. They both look towards the ship.

Dani holds a woman in her arms, squeezing her tightly. A woman that she remembers from a time a few weeks ago, on an old Separatist science ship. The woman who they had come for. For a dream of family, and nothing else.

**Two Weeks Later**  
**Fondor**

Irnalyn puts her datapad down as Nola Vorserrie, Yelena Dao, and Dorith’s daughter walk into the audience chamber. Irnalyn smiles softly. The young woman had made a point of coming by every day, to remind Panteer of what he had lost. She had stayed at the Dao-Aspeff compound. The first meeting had been the best, when he had attempted to play nice—a hard tactic for him. 

Melis Nath had shut him down with a withering glare, and had merely turned her back on him. He’d attempted to send his guards after her, but Irnalyn’s own two guards, who he’d been introduced to, had looked at him, their hands on various weapons.

Each time, Melis had come back and their conversations had been correct. She had asked him about her cousins and her mother; he’d been no more able to have an emotionally mature conversation, than he’d been able to show her affection, for her own sake. 

Panteer stares at the three women, particularly Nola. His expression takes on one of deep loathing. It grows as Irnalyn rises and walks over, greeting each one with a deep hug and a kiss. She can feel the fury grow as she lingers with her kiss to Nola. 

Nola breaks away with a smile and a deep blush on her pale skin as she returns his gaze. 

“You should be dead now,” he says. He motions to a guard. “It’d be within my power to have you put against that wall over there and shot.”

Nola smiles and pulls out a holocomm as the two guards move towards her. Irnalyn tenses, making her move towards a small bangle on her arm. She notices that Melis moves in front of Nola. Yelena merely stares dangerously at the Moff, the healing scar along the side of her head showing pale against her dark bronze skin. 

A woman’s image pops up above the comm. Irnalyn sees Panteer take a step back as Ming Lardai listens to a disembodied voice. Just a few words, and even the guards stop, enthralled. 

“It’s time for you to die. Panteer won’t be coming to your aid this time. He won’t risk going against his master, Jabba.” 

Panteer says nothing as Prince Xizor’s recognizable voice finishes. He looks at his escort. “Carry out the order of termination against Nola Vorserrie,” he says evenly, pointing at Nola. 

The troopers don’t move. They stand as if listening to a distant communication. Unintelligible sounds emit from their helmet speakers. As one, they turn. 

They are replaced by a young woman in a fleet trooper’s uniform. Edan Kozume lowers her comm. Irnalyn moves over to her, but stops at a brief smile and shake of the head. 

“Why aren’t my troopers obeying me?” he asks her. 

“Because they are obeying the control codes given to me by Grand Moff Isard,” she says quietly, “he seemed to think that your new military attache might need them.”

She walks into the space between the group and Panteer. He looks at the weapon on her belt. “Then you can put a blaster bolt in her head,” he says.

Edan shakes her head. “I’d advise against it, your Excellency,” she says. “Ms. Vorserrie is here under the authority of another Imperial moff, the Viceroy of Corellia.” Irnalyn sees her eyes narrow. “You can’t afford to make any more enemies, right now. The issues that you caused—the race to find your daughter, went against the Imperial rescript of not interfering in that world and its forming Imperial rule.”

Dorith smiles dangerously. “I’d’ve thought you would’ve been dead, for failing Enolo and Bouva,” he says. 

Her smile turns just as dangerous. “Captain Enolo is preoccupied with Commander Bouva’s recovery. She seems to think that since I saved her life, I might be worth being kept alive for awhile. Plus, they were able to recover some property from Kessel. One who’d been tasked with keeping Melis’s mother in custody.”

Irnalyn curses at the thought of the Falleen Mandalorian. She wonders if her own Falleen and her Mirialan partner might be able to pay Enolo a visit, to ensure his good health. She’d not anticipated the two officers’ interference even on Kessel. She closes her eyes as she remembers the description of the barbaric form his slavery had taken—a Zygerrian device that had even been banned by that Empire.

The door to the audience chamber opens. Irnalyn smiles at Panteer’s reaction to the young woman walking in. Camille, now the Grace of Panteer, stares at him. 

“Hello, Uncle,” she finally says, “or should I say, Dorith. As head of the family, I’ve taken the liberty of issuing a Bill of Separation in the Council of Graces. For you and your grandfather. It passed with the required majority. It seems you’ve pissed off a lot of people.”

“You wouldn’t dare...”

She shakes her head. “Already did.” Camille holds up an ornate certificate. “The Queen has signed it. You and your grandfather are no longer Panteer.”

She walks over to Melis. “I’m sorry, my dear. For you, this means that you have a choice to be part of our family. The Queen has made sure of that.”

Melis takes her hands in hers. “I don’t want to give up the connection, but I wish to renounce any claim I might have to the Candlewick Throne,” she says. 

Irnalyn smiles with pride at her poise. 

Camille nods and kisses her on the cheek. “You’ve done your research. You’re always welcome in my home, love.”

Dorith moves towards her, raising his hand as if to strike her. Camille stands her ground. “Perhaps the people of the Empire might be willing to hear the fact of how desperate you were to breed an heir.”

A small girl steps out from behind her. Irnalyn’s eyes smile as others stare at the girl’s face. Melis crouches down and pulls her into a deep hug. The girl looks up into Melis’s face.

After they break away, she walks over to Dorith and faces him, unflinchingly. “If any of these people are harmed by you, I’ll kill you,” she says. 

His eyes widen. “Yes. I threatened you. You going to kill me? Your last hope? That’s what you’ll have to do. Plus, I could be considered officially a bastard, now—you’re not my father. Might be out of your master plan.” She continues to spear him with her gaze. “I spent two weeks in your presence. Not once did you speak to me as a father, only as a possession to further your ends.”

Her hard expression turns into a grin. “Apparently, as a Mandalorian Foundling, I have an unofficial father,” she says, turning to Nola. “I apparently have lots of aunts and uncles, who will stand with me. I look forward to meeting them, as well as my mother and her mother.”

“By the way, Dory,” Nola says, “you might want to check your accounts. Your unofficial ones. Shaizan Financial on Naboo has bought the ownership of them. They’ve frozen them, because they’ve found financial irregularities. Transfer codes indicate that they were embezzled from Blastech. They’ve been placed in trust, with Ms. Zabrin as their executrix.” 

She turns to walk away, as do the others. “Perhaps you’ll find someone to take your seed, Dory, someday,” Nola says over her shoulder. 

Dorith stands staring at the door. Irnalyn walks over to him. 

“Have you deserted me as well, Irnalyn?”

She smiles and kisses him. “No. But I will let you know that you might be the Moff, but you only have the power that I let you have.”

“I work for the Emperor,” he says, his expression growing hard. 

“Oh, no,” she says. “Kanjiklub owns your accounts. We own you. I’m the ruler of Fondor, for all intents and purposes. I’ve formed a close friendship with your niece and Yosta Aspeff.” She looks at her son, standing close to her. 

“You’re nothing.”

* * *

Bryne watches as Melis sips her tea, looking out of the window at the mountain scenery. It had been two days since Melis had left Fondor, leaving her father behind, with his influence waning on both Alderaan and Fondor as well. He smiles as her brow furrows; she worries her lip with her incisor—a familiar expression from anyone that knows Ahsoka Tano.

Someone Melis hasn’t met, yet. 

She focuses on him. “Can my father continue to threaten me? There’s still a lot he can do. He is an Imperial moff,” she muses. 

“Maybe so,” Bryne replies, “but we’ll protect you. We’ll protect you with the weight of at least four worlds, plus a couple of apparent criminal organization.” He grins. “Friends in high and low places.”

Her laughter warms him; it keeps his mind off of his own loss. If it can be counted as one. “Queen Breha has taken an interest in you. Draq’ Bel Iblis, who is a cantankerous old bastard, and incidentally my uncle, could make sure that you get Corellian citizenship, or even Mandalorian, since you’ve kind’ve renounced any connection to Dorith.”

Melis nods, “I’m at least maintaining a connection with Camille. She seems to be the only real member of House Panteer left. I may accept her offer of family membership. I’ve made it clear that I have no interest in the throne.”

Bryne continues to meet her dark gaze. “I don’t think Queen Breha cares. She wants you to be happy. I know her. She is a good person.”

“I’ve met a lot of good people in the last few months. More than I had in seventeen years or so,” Melis replies. 

The door to the solarium opens. Camille Panteer comes in and immediately greets Melis. Bryne is able to feel genuine warmth from the Grace. He realizes that the warmth isn’t just coming from the scene in front of him. 

Naathanan Beten’ii walks in, a warm smile on her crimson features. Bryne watches as a young woman, maybe in her late thirties or early forties follows the former pirate. Bryne nods at her, then walks over. He extends his hand; she grasps it firmly. He is nearly bowled over by the warm, broad smile that moves over her features.

“So you’re the one that’s caused all this trouble,” he says with a grin. 

Ardalen Nath rolls her eyes, then laughs. “I learned from the best,” she says, looking at Naathanan, her adoptive mother. 

Bryne smirks, then gasps as the teacher of that trouble reaches down and grasps him by what some would call his brain. He is treated to the laughter of all four women. 

He sees Melis looking at Ardalen. Bryne’s heart clinches at the expressions on both women’s faces—their similar faces, if you know what to look for.

They stare at one another, unsure of what to say or do. Bryne locks eyes with Naatha, who grins back at him and rolls her own eyes. She moves to both of them and pulls them together, stepping away as their arms go about each other. 

Bryne, Naatha, and Camille are treated to them holding each other tightly, mother and daughter. They step away, leaving them to catch up. 

Seventeen years’ worth. 

“So what about her Imperial commitment?” Camille asks Bryne.

“She’s got some options. She can continue to serve with Madine’s battalion, as an officer-trainee, or she can take another route,” he replies. 

“What’s that?” Naatha asks.

“The Imperial Advisor for Corellia says that she thinks she can get her assigned, at least nominally to the ISB Internship program. She’d just have to report in.” He grins. “She’s an easy boss, for an Imp. She has some ties to the University of Bar’leth; she could get her in that Strategic Thinking program.”

Camille nods. “What will she do when she’s not learning Imperial-ness?”

“I think that her adopted brother, or whatever the hell he is, may take her with his daughter to fly around the galaxy,” he says. “He’s a good man. Talle might benefit from having a sister around.”

Bryne’s left eye opens as the memory of the reunion fades in his mind. He squints at Ahsoka’s beloved face, sitting across from him on the deck of the old Republic shuttle. She doesn’t open hers, but smiles. 

“I thought we were meditating,” she says, “trying to work on your Force sense.”

“Just taking a break, vaar’ika,” he says. The smile grows on her face at the Mando word for a lifelong nickname from him. 

Runt.

“I’m doing about as well as I’ve ever done. Even at what passed for 100% for me.

She opens her eyes, gazing at him, then looks away. “Are you sure you’re willing to try this? Everything that I got from Soma Jess—what she put in my head, tells me that using the Franza discipline—could be dangerous. Could be a temporary fix at best, if it even exists.”

Covenant looks down. “I know. But I feel like the most useless plucky sidekick to you that ever lived in the history of plucky sidekicks.”

She relents, then gets up, moving next to him and taking him in her arms. They hold each other for several moments, listening to each other breathe. 

“I told you,” she says, “I chose the man as my hunt-brother, not the Force user.” She breaks away and looks at him. He manages to meet her gaze, even with the laserlike intensity of those blue eyes. “Why are you feeling this now? You did pretty good on Felucia.”

He shakes his head. “That might’ve been the Asundrance,” he replies, naming the strange Force entity that they’d faced on Felucia. He closes his eyes. “I’ve just been thinking about my grandfather. It was the time that I learned that it could be dangerous as a Force user in the galaxy. He didn’t know what to do with me—I think that might’ve been a large part of why he cast me out. He didn’t know what the hell to do.”

She reaches up and brushes her fingers through his hair. “Do you trust Soma? She was the one that nearly got you outed to the Seps,” she says, “you and your world.”

“Not a lot of Force users to trust, Runt,” he says. “I’ll go to Jedha and see if I can find her. She won’t risk angering Malaky, who’s her lifeline.”

She reaches over and kisses him, smoothing her forehead with her fingers. “How do you feel?”

“I’m okay,” he says after a moment. “Maybe this can help me.”

Ahsoka kisses him again. He answers by running his hand up her bare thigh, under her brief skirt. She shakes her head. “I thought you were weak,” she says, her voice catching as he hits a particularly sensitive spot.

“I might be healed by my high-speed rebel operative climbing on top of me and laying here with me for awhile.”

She pushes him down, then moves over him. He kisses her on on the tip of her nose before she moves her face to his chest. 

“I can do that,” she says, as he feels a mischievous grin growing over her features, “but things might get a bit strenuous later.”

As they lie holding each other, Bryne thinks about family—family of choice and of blood. He realizes how lucky he has it, with the best of both worlds.

* * *

Shyla Merricope sits in a small anteroom on a ship of her homeworld. She watches a red light over the door to a main room, waiting for it to go off. As she waits, she wonders if this is the best course of action to take. Whether she can bridge the gap between two proud men, each wanting the same thing, but each with their own stubborn way of achieving what they want. 

The restoration of light and freedom in the galaxy. She sighs, then takes out her datapad. She reads the text from her partner in crime. 

Malaky Thittan had managed to get out of Kessel, along with his loyal pilot, Chi Herne. 

Another had not been so lucky. Kal Skirata, her erstwhile bodyguard and another long time partner, even when she was the all powerful Diktat of Corellia, was missing, along with another. An apparent Jedi survivor—an even rarer example—one from the Green Temple on Shyla’s world. One that might have had connections, however tenuous to the Jedi-CorSec cabal during the war. A cabal managed by Draq’ Bel Iblis on the Corellian side. A cabal that had actually only consisted of two people. A young Jedi that now held Corellia’s security and freedom on his shoulders, as the holder of an ancient title.

The other, the daughter of the Dragon of Corellia. One who held Shyla’s heart, even though Shyla might have destroyed any chances of having a life with her. 

She closes her eyes on that memory, instead, she concentrates on Malaky’s words. 

“Everything was working. We had our route planned and a ship standing by. I turned around and both Kal and the Jedi were gone. We didn’t have time to look.” His reptilian features had grown thoughtful in the holo. “There was something strange about that Jedi. Kal sensed it, too, but I could tell that he couldn’t put his finger on what was off.”

The light goes on above the inner door, breaking into Shyla’s thoughts. She walks into a more comfortable room, a parlor of some sort, with lowered lights. She sees a couple of figures sitting, apparently waiting on them.

Shyla’s eyes widen as she sees the small child playing with a handmade toy, a stuffed tooka head with a slightly demented cast to its eyes, the head sewn on what appears to be a stuffed sock. The little girl looks up at them with what can only be described as appraising eyes. After a moment, Shyla feels like she has passed some sort of test. A bright smile slowly flows over the girl’s bronze features. She turns and runs out of the room with a giggle. 

Her eyes shift to the chairs arranged around a faux fireplace. She watches as the figure seated at the fire turns. Her eyes narrow as she stares at the younger of those two men that she’d been thinking of, earlier. One that she hadn’t expected the summons from.

Garm Bel Iblis, Imperial senator and son of the Dragon of Corellia, returns her look. “Not who you expected, Shyla dear, but please hear me out,” he says, holding up both hands. After a moment, she nods. She walks over to the proffered chair and sits gingerly. 

“So what’s this all about, Garm?” she asks, her eyes on the Corellian.

“I think that you might be interested in a different perspective than one you’ve known, in this little operation you’ve gotten yourself into,” he replies. 

She stares at him, trying to decipher what lies between the lines of what he is saying. She’d heard of his long-standing feud with Mon Mothma over the direction of how they would restore the Republic. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about Garm,” she says evenly. 

He reaches out and touches her hand. “Come on, Shyla. You know that this movement might benefit from a different way of doing things. Maybe even a different flow of information.

He motions behind him. A young woman, maybe about Bryne Covenant’s age walks in, clad in a dark gray, hooded robe. Shyla looks at the woman, whose dark blue eyes reveal the same shadow of pain and loss that she has seen fleetingly move through others of her acquaintance’s eyes. Especially the eyes of Bryne Covenant and a large ex-trooper of the GAR, of another little girl. She realizes where she’d seen the little girl who’d been playing when she walked in before, or at least in a slightly older version.

“This is Myrridin,” Garm says. “She’s the tip of the sword for my tiny little version of my father’s group.” He grins, holding up a datapad. “I understand that there’s a bit of a relationship with a couple of Imperials that has provided some dividends. I’ve an opportunity, from relationships built before the war to build those same types of dividends.” He pushes a button. “Our target,” he finishes. 

Wulff Yularen’s dignified features stare at her from the holorecord. She looks at the woman who is taking all of this in.

As she stares at Garm, her mind searches for her rusty knowledge of Old Corellian, for the Basic version of the agent’s codename. 

Her heart twists as her mind locks on the translation.

_Fulcrum._


End file.
